


Come Sail Your Ships Around Me

by LionsAndTigers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-02-06 01:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LionsAndTigers/pseuds/LionsAndTigers
Summary: A young boy refuses to part with his goshawk. A secondborn daughter is born first, and named heir. The story has been told over and over throughout the different lifetimes. The Song of Ice and Fire. This time will not be very different from all the lifetimes which came before it. But it's different enough.Or:The Lord of Storm's End rides north with his brother and meets Lord Stark's young heir.





	1. Prologue: In a Different Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes... Doing this again. Am in desperate need of a beta. If my beta!soulmate is here in the crowd- give me a shoutout!

In a different lifetime, he took to heart ser Harbert’s needling and Robert’s mocking words, and abandoned Proudwing. Much like the bird’s injury had prevented it from ever flying higher than the treetops, the burden of losing the goshawk weighed him down for the rest of his life. It was a painful lesson, but one he never forgot- weak things were to be discarded, lest they turned you into a weak fool.

In this lifetime, however, Proudwing stayed with him, even when word reached Storm’s End of the massive host approaching their walls. Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne believed him to be a green boy, when they marched east. They boasted Storm’s End would be theirs within a fortnight.

They were wrong.

Stannis Baratheon was eight-and-ten when they arrived; a man grown, and a grim one by all accounts. His liege lord and older brother, whom he loved but had never particularly liked, had ridden off to war against the mad king, and left his younger brother to defend their family’s ancient seat. Stannis had grown up in Robert’s shadow, forever falling short by comparison. He had no intention of failing in his assigned duty.

But when he witnessed the Redwyne fleet closing off Shipbreaker Bay, when he tried and failed to count the rows upon rows of tents which made up the Tyrell force, when maester Cressen came to inform him that their granaries would last them four months at best…

He knew they meant to starve him out.

Storm’s End had never been conquered, and for good reason. Within its thick walls, his small garrison was as mighty as the host gathered out on the fields. Had lord Tyrell been fool enough to attack, his losses would have been beyond imagining. But even though the man was a self-important pillock, he was not entirely without sense. Stannis knew Tyrell would not send thousands to their death; not when he could sit and watch the small Baratheon garrison starve.

So Stannis ground his teeth, an uncontrollable habit he had acquired ever since Robert declared war on the Targaryens, and ordered Cressen to start rationing the food. In secret, he made sure Renly received half his own rations, despite the maester’s protests. His brother was barely five, and frightened. Stannis did not fear death, or so he told himself; but he could not bear to see such fear in Renly’s blue eyes, nor was he willing to risk his brother’s health. So Renly ate, while Stannis grew thinner. And outside, Tyrell and Redwyne took to feasting within sight of the walls.

Months passed.

When their storehouses ran dry, they began cutting down the horses. Cressen reckoned it would buy them two months at most, and Renly complained the cured horsemeat was inedible. It was the first and only time Stannis ever struck his younger brother. His large hand left a violent red print across Renly’s cheek. The boy never complained thereafter. It took a month for the servants to gather courage and tell their stern lord that his young brother had taken to crying himself to sleep after the incident. Stannis had gone to bed that night cursing all of them- Robert, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, Rhaegar Targaryen…

Most of all, he cursed Mace Tyrell.

Eventually, they ran out of horsemeat. And when they realized they would have to start eating cats and dogs, the people turned mutinous. Most whispered of surrender when they thought he was out of earshot, but some tried to escape under the cover of darkness. Stannis threw them behind bars, though he was sorely tempted to catapult them to their deaths at the Tyrell host. Cressen was the one to stop him, by telling him that after the dogs were gone they would have no choice but to eat their own dead. Stannis succinctly explained all of this to his small garrison, his face grim and his jaw clenched. And he made them a promise- one they could well believe.

The next deserter would be the first to be served up as food.

No one tried to escape after that. They had come to know their young lord’s true mettle during the months they had spent under siege. They knew him for a man of his word, knew that his will was iron. Oh, he had never been an easy man to love. But he had proven himself a capable leader, and they were willing to follow him to the bitter end, fully knowing that death was the only possible outcome. He saw it in their haggard faces, in their tired eyes. And if the sight caused guilt to gnaw at him like a rabid beast, well, he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it.

On the night they cooked the last of the cats, when he could no longer deny that death was at their door, he made the decision to set Proudwing free. They had spent weeks discussing the inevitability of eating human flesh, but he had remained doubtful. It seemed simpler, more honorable, to just give up and die. He had survived thus far on sheer stubbornness, long after any strength in his frame had been eaten away. He had forced others to survive with him, for him. _For what?_

He set Proudwing free because, for longer than he cared to admit, he had gone to bed wishing never to wake up.

He set it free knowing that, in all likelihood, the bird would not survive. Whether a soldier from the Tyrell host mistook it for a raven and shot it down, or it simply died of starvation out in the wilderness, Proudwing’s odds were nonexistent.

Yet he set it free all the same, clinging to the small hope that somehow, against all odds, the bird would outlast him. A small piece of himself, out there in world- this one friend, who had been loyal without fault. So he forced Proudwing to fly away, ignoring the tears stinging his eyes, and embraced his inevitable death. His only regret, his dying regret, was that he had failed to sneak Renly out of the castle before the end.

And much later, when the night was nothing but an unending blackness, he met Davos for the first time.

The smuggler was slight of build, with common brown hair and unremarkable brown eyes. A notorious smuggler, a criminal in the eyes of the law. Stannis knew the justice befitting such a man, but when the ripe smell of onions and salted fish reached his nostrils his stomach clenched so tightly he was left momentarily paralyzed.

“You’ve risked much, smuggler, and we have no way of repaying you”, he said truthfully, honest to a fault.

The smuggler smiled. It was an honest smile, not sinister in the least. Stannis was prone to mistrust it, and the man who offered it so easily.

“Your brother is winnin’ the war, m’lord”. His accent was thick. _Flea-Bottom_ , Stannis thought, with a touch of distaste.

He knew he should be overcome with joy at such news, but all he could think of was the food within his grasp. Food enough to keep his people alive. Enough to keep his brother from starving to death.

“I reckon savin’ his brother’s life might earn me a favor or two with lord Baratheon, after everythin’ is said and done.”

“For saving the youngest brother, perhaps”, Stannis agreed, hearing an old bitterness etched into every syllable. “But not the one standing before you.”

The smuggler frowned at him. Stannis carried on.

“You will have no need for compensation from my brother. Once this war is over, I will personally repay the debt between us. Every last bit of it.”

 _The good, and the bad_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stannis watched from the high walls as Eddard Stark arrived with his host to accept lord Tyrell’s surrender. It was easy to make the Stark banner- a grey direwolf against a field of white. Yet it rode under another, greater banner, which was at once achingly familiar and brand new. A prancing black stag with great antlers, newly crowned, against a field of gold.

 _My brother is king_.

The thought was accompanied only by a sense of numbness. Stannis felt nothing in the face of the siege’s uplift. For a year it had defined him, altered him and eaten at him. He had been fully prepared to die. Now, he was forced to learn how to live again.

So he donned a plain plated armor, feeling its weight like never before. The chainmail and plate hid away his wasted figure, but nothing could disguise how tightly the skin was pulled over his cheeks, how hallow they appeared. When he mounted the horse lord Stark had sent for him he felt unsteady in the saddle. His appointed standard bearer, one of Stark’s men, chanced a curious glance. Stannis ground his teeth, clenched his hands around the reins, and set off at a gallop, leaving the other man far behind.

Tyrell was rude enough to offer his surrender to lord Stark, rather than the new king’s true kin, and Stannis felt the slight keenly. Even more insulting was the calm and polite manner with which Eddard Stark accepted the fat man’s insincere platitudes, and assured him in return that no retribution would be sought against house Tyrell or the Reach.

Stannis wanted to scream, wanted to pommel the oaf with his armored fists ‘til the smug smile came off his face. In the end, all he did was watch the proceedings with an angry scowl.

The scowl didn’t quite fade until a week later, when he finally got to see the back of Mace Tyrell as the oaf rode away with his army. In this lifetime, and in every other, Stannis Baratheon vowed in that moment never to forgive, never to forget.

The days that followed seemed to pass in endless celebrations. Lord Stark had brought food with him, and the Tyrells had left them wineskins full of Arbor gold as a sign of good faith. People ate ‘til they were sick, then they ate again, laughing and drinking and crying simultaneously. It seemed every man was out to find a woman or two, though those were scarce and none too pleasing. The whores following Stark’s camp struggled to carry their heavy purses, filled to the brim with soldiers’ gold.

Stannis watched it all from the sidelines, but did not partake. Neither did lord Stark. For that alone, Stannis’ dislike of the man lessened somewhat.

Stannis was nine-and-ten by then, Eddard twenty. Neither of them talked easily, as neither was naturally outgoing or gregarious. But talk they did. Stilted conversations of trivial matters turned into long hours of keen discussions. And when, late one night, Stannis was foolish enough to tell Eddard about Proudwing, lord Stark jumped so suddenly from his seat that Stannis startled. Eddard opened the tent and spoke quickly to the sentry posted outside. Moments later, lord Stark smiled a sad smile as he relinquished a cage into Stannis’ shaking hands. Proudwing was perched inside, and Stannis’ throat was moving, convulsing, yet no sounds came out. Lost for words, he hugged Eddard Stark, and was grateful beyond measure when the shorter man hugged him back with surprising strength.

Eddard left shortly after with a small party of loyal northern men, riding fast for Dorne in search of his sister. The host, a wild mix of northerners, men of the vale and stormlanders, was left under Stannis’ command. Over twenty-five thousand strong, with many notable lords and famous knights among them. He knew not how the young, quiet wolf managed them so neatly, had no notion how to do so himself. As he watched Eddard ride away, Stannis acknowledged he bore the man no ill will. Eddard Stark was a good, honorable man; one Stannis could respect, possibly even like.

He was barely strong enough to lift a sword in battle, and still a stone or two underweight, when Robert’s marching orders finally arrived. His brother’s orders were as short as they were impossible.

‘ _Build me a fleet._ _Take Dragonstone by any means necessary._ _Bring me the heads of Rhaella Targaryen and her spawn.’_

Stannis Baratheon ground his teeth, and set out to do his brother’s, his _king’s_ , bidding.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He made Davos a knight and took the fingertips of his left hand on the same day. The smuggler chose the name ‘Seaworth’, and Stannis found it appropriate. Ser Davos proved invaluable as they built a new armada, one great enough to rival the Targaryen fleet harbored on Dragonstone. The other knights and lords mocked the man, calling him ‘onion knight’, but ser Davos seemed unperturbed.

When he showed Stannis his chosen coat of arms, an onion upon a black sail, the stern young lord burst out laughing. The sound was so rare, every man within earshot stopped to stare at the unlikely pair with wide eyes. Stannis barked at them to get back to work, but shared an amused look with the former smuggler. He watched as the man reached for the pouch around his neck, where the knight kept the bones of his amputated joints.

“Why do you keep them?” Stannis wondered.

“For luck”, Davos said with a shrug. Stannis realized he had come to trust the man’s easy smile.

He wasn’t quite sure how to reply, though, so settled for saying nothing at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Dragonstone finally yielded he discovered the former queen had died during childbirth. Her two living children, one just a newborn baby, had been spirited away before he had ever set sail from Shipbreaker Bay.

In a different lifetime, he then returned to King’s Landing with his head bowed in defeat to accept his brother’s wrath. And Robert was indeed frightening to behold, his face completely red and frothing at the mouth as he shouted accusations and degradations at his brother. By then all of Westeros had learned of Lyanna Stark’s tragic death, and Robert was determined to claim every drop of Targaryen blood in compensation. Lord Stark was gone, having ridden north with his sister’s bones, to bury her in Winterfell’s crypts alongside their brother and father. In his absence, no one could quell the new king’s rage.

But in this lifetime, Stannis Baratheon would not accept defeat. Like Proudwing, he had survived against all odds. And even though he was weaker, he was as much a Baratheon as Robert. _Ours is the Fury_ , were the words of his house. And the fury burnt within him hotly; so hotly, he sometimes feared he would never find peace again.

So he sailed in pursuit, to Braavos, a place he had heard much of, but had never thought to see with his own eyes. The city of free slaves, of the Titan, was beautiful to behold. It was made up of hundreds of small islands, connected by endless canals, twisting and winding around the small patches of land like giant watery serpents.

The Sealord of Braavos was not happy to see him. The ruler of the city did only what was absolutely necessary so as not to incur Westeros’s displeasure, but otherwise refused to assist with the hunt. The man seemed to dislike the notion of hunting down children, and Stannis could not resent him for that. He remembered the tales surrounding Elia Martell’s children; how lord Tywin Lannister had to wrap them in crimson cloaks to hide the stains of blood when he presented their corpses to Robert.

Unaided and sometimes subtly sabotaged by the Braavosi, the hunt for ser Willem Darry took several weeks. But in the end the great bear of a man was discovered. Both children were with him, and, unexpectedly, so was the Red Viper of Dorne.

“Prince Oberyn, this is treason”, Stannis said upon seeing the man, keeping his tone respectful. Oberyn was very handsome, with his olive skin and black eyes, and very, very dangerous. He was also the brother of the dead princess, Elia, and uncle to the dead prince and princess she had birthed.

“What your brother has done is treason”, the Dornish prince replied, his smile as sharp as a knife. “The way we in Dorne see it, the true king is here, sleeping soundly.”

Stannis had brought fifteen men with him. He had no doubt sixteen could take on two, and while Oberyn was still in his prime, Darry was old and seemed sickly.

But Stannis had no desire to kill unnecessarily, especially not a prince of Dorne. “Too much blood has been spilt over this war, my prince.” His words were truth. He believed in them.

“And so, you thought to yourself- what are two more butchered babes in the grand scheme of things?” The prince’s tone was mocking, but his face was etched with grief.

“Supporting this child will not bring Elia back, or her children.”

A noble woman, a princess, raped and murdered. Men starving to death. Two innocent children, wrapped in crimson cloaks to hide the blood. Men dying on the battlefield. _What difference did it make, in the end?_ Death came for everyone. Life could be cruel even in times of peace, but war, Stannis had learned, was cruelest.

“No.” The prince said. “But killing lord Tywin, that mad dog of his, and your brute of a brother just might avenge them.”

“My brother did not order Elia’s death.” At least, Stannis had never heard or read such an order.

“But he stood there and accepted their corpses as if Lannister was offering him precious gifts.” The rage had escaped the prince’s control. He spat the words out like poison. “And you intend to do the same. You will slaughter innocent children simply to carry favor with your brother. What threat are they to him? What danger could a mere babe pose to the mighty king Robert?”

“Your very presence here proves the threat is real. Not today, not tomorrow, but _someday_. You mean to have your vengeance through these children. You will set them on a path of war and strife, endangering their lives and sacrificing thousands more in another war, all for the sake of your revenge. If I am cruel, you’re crueler, prince Oberyn. I meant to give them a painless death, in their sleep. But you? You would wish them a life of suffering.”

“Let them have a chance to fight for their lives!” It was an enraged cry, and at the same time, the desperate plea of a man who had lost.

“No.” His voice was deeper, surer. The fire, the fury, was rising in him. Stannis spoke with the voice of the great lord he had never thought to be.

“Aerys was mad. His son, unstable and without honor. They had to be stopped. I would have supported the rebellion even had Robert not been my brother and liege. My family, my brother, will never be able to make amends for the princess and her children, though I promise you as brother to the king- you will have ser Gregor’s head. But the war is over. It has ravaged the kingdoms, it has ruined our people, our homes, and our families. If killing two children is what’s needed to prevent another such war from occurring in fifteen years, then I will shoulder that sin, and do so gladly.”

 _And justice will find me, sooner or later_.

Oberyn left shortly after, and even in the semi-darkness of the house Stannis could see the traces of hot tears on the man’s dark cheeks. Oddly enough, the dornishman did not ask that his presence in Braavos or his business there be kept a secret. Regardless, Stannis had no intention of disclosing his meeting with the prince to anyone. He had not come all the way to Braavos to kill infants, only to have the war reignited by revealing the prince’s treachery.

In the end, ser Willem insisted on administering the poison himself.

“They will not feel pain?” the grey man asked, while the tears ran down his cheeks in rivulets.

Stannis could only nod.

Ser Willem was gentle with the children. Young Viserys, older than Renly but smaller in size, made a fuss when Darry woke him up. The young prince was alarmed by Stannis’ presence, but settled when Darry rocked him gently in his arms. The baby, Daenerys, barely stirred. She fell asleep again almost as soon as she’d taken the final sip.

Darry refused the offer of a third phial. Instead, he asked that Stannis carry out the sentence himself.

 _Just like ser Davos_.

So, Stannis sent all his men out of the house save one, and together with ser Willem the three made their way to the small yard behind the house. It was completely secluded, facing away from the street. Lines of laundry hung there to dry. It was an unfitting place of death for a man who had served as master-of-arms to the king of Westeros.

He made a clean work of it, and even though it was the first life he had ever taken, Stannis’ hands never shook. Ser Willem Darry was a man of honor, and he was loyal to his liege to the very end. Stannis had more respect for such a man than for those who bent the knee when the battle was all but won. For Darry’s sake he swung with all his force, his aim true and his sword sharp. A rare, clean cut, and ser Willem was dead.

He dismissed all his men back to their ship to prepare for departure. All except one. Together, they sat before the fireplace, and waited in silence. Stannis took the time to meticulously clean his sword.

It was almost dawn when his companion rose. He climbed upstairs, and returned shortly with a small bundle tucked firmly against his shoulder.

“The boy?” Stannis spoke quietly, staring at the flickering embers. The flames were sputtering and gutting.

“Dead.” Ser Davos shifted the bundle in his arms so as to cradle it.

“And the girl?” Stannis asked, though the bundle was proof enough.

“Sleeping soundly, warm and breathing against me.”

Davos smiled down at the little babe in his arms, concealed from Stannis’ view by a heavy blanket. He could imagine what Davos saw all too easily. Pale silver hair; rosy, pale skin. And he knew her eyes were already turning from baby blue to Targaryen purple. It was practically impossible to hide such a child, but if anyone could- it was his smuggler.

He knew Davos was a father. They had often spoken of Davos’ hopes for his sons, now that he had been elevated to knighthood. Stannis knew the former smuggler would do anything for his children. He hoped the man would show a similar devotion to the orphan in his arms.

Such a small girl, utterly incapable of causing harm were it not for the name she bore: Daenerys Stormborn of house Targaryen.

“You know what your orders are, ser.”

“Go far, far away. Find ‘er a good home which won’t ever wonder at 'er silver hair and purple eyes. Make sure she’s safe, make sure she’s loved. I’ll do my damn best, m’lord.”

It seemed there was nothing more to say, but Davos lingered. Stannis shot him a piercing look, willing the man gone. They had to be far away by first light.

“It’s a kind thing you’re doin’, m’lord”, the former smuggler said. But the man couldn’t quite achieve a smile, and Stannis heard the blatant lie for what it was; a sad attempt to assuage guilt.

Stannis scoffed. The sound was hollow and humorless.

“If I were kind I would give that child a blade and guide her hand to my throat.” He was not kind. He was simply weary of the endless bloodshed.

“She must never know where she came from, must never guess at her true name”, Stannis reminded his smuggler in a grave voice. “As far as the world is concerned, Daenerys Targaryen died tonight in her bed.”

Ser Davos nodded once, solemnly, and was gone.

Alone, Stannis rose slowly from his seat. With an iron poker, he carefully picked up one of the last logs still burning, and began the climb up to the roof. He passed by the prince’s room along the way, but didn’t stop to look. He had accepted the burden of sin, but could not bring himself to willingly gaze upon the corpse of an innocent child.

Up he went, ‘til he stood beneath the wooden beams supporting the thatched roof. Most buildings in Braavos were made of stone, as wood was costly in the city. Darry must have chosen the house for its remoteness and, perhaps, for its familiarity. For the house, which stood just on the edge of the street, was built entirely of wood. Much of it appeared to be made of beams that had been stripped off ships, but it was a wooden home not unlike the simple huts in the villages of the Stormlands. _It will burn just as easily_ , Stannis knew. Dry wood was dry wood.

No one saw him as he escaped the flames, and he heard no cries for help ‘til he was more than a mile away. By then he could see the fire raging, the flames jumping up at the sky.

He sailed away with the dawn, grateful to be leaving, meaning never to return.

When he finally retired to his cabin for sleep, his dreams were filled with sad eyes. Some were Dornish black, some Baratheon blue, while others were brown and unremarkable, or even a deep smoky grey. But the most haunting pair of all was a brilliant shade of purple.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In a different lifetime, his brother gave him Dragonstone and denied him Storm’s End, and Stannis had taken it as an insult. It was a slight he could not forgive, and the grudge he developed stayed with him long after Robert’s death.

In this lifetime, however, Robert’s unbridled satisfaction with his younger brother’s actions was so great, he could not bring himself to tear Stannis away from the castle they both loved so well.

So Stannis was named lord of Storm’s End, and made to hold Dragonstone in the king’s name, until a prince would be born from his marriage to Cersei Lannister.

The union was the only reason Stannis was able to fulfill his promise to the prince of Dorne. Desperate for his daughter to become queen, lord Lannister agreed to sentence the Mountain to death.

Stannis delivered Gregor Clegane’s body to Sunspear in person. Doran Martell thanked him, but Stannis was not fooled by the pleasantries. Dorne would never forgive the crimes against Elia and her children.

He didn’t stay for long. Mostly because he was anxious to be home, back in Storm’s End where he belonged. But also, because he was unwilling to test the restless truce between himself and the Martells.

Storm’s End, restored and full of life, filled him with joy. Proudwing, still only flying as high as the treetops, filled him with joy. Watching Renly begin training in the yard, still clumsy with his wooden sword but happy and healthy, filled him with joy.

When Davos finally returned, after being gone for over six months, he remarked on the improvement in Stannis’ countenance.

As punishment, one carefully disguised as a reward, Stannis named his onion knight castellan of Dragonstone.


	2. Of Husbands and Sons I

She was the perfect daughter, a perfect little lady who knew her duty from youth. She never caused trouble, always followed the rules. She took care to be courteous, polite, well-mannered. She was genuine in her devotion to the Seven. She followed her studies diligently, mustering skills such as sewing, sketching, singing and playing the harp. Her Septa claimed she was very accomplished, and she took pride in that. She learned early on that she was considered very beautiful, even more so than her gentle mother, and destined to become one of the prettiest maids in Westeros.

From tender age, Catelyn Tully knew her duty was to wed a great lord and be a good wife to him. She never shied away from that duty, never feared it. The Tully words were simple and strong, and she followed them faithfully.

_Family, Duty, Honor._

She was Father’s favorite. When Mother died, Father told her she was to be the lady of Riverrun. Cat took it to heart. She spent hours in Father’s company, learning how to run a great castle, how to be a lady in truth. The servants soon learned to come to her, young as she was, to approve menus and sanction new purchases. And when lord Hoster’s eyesight began to fail, she took it upon herself to read to him, and learned to write down his correspondences in a steady hand.

She did not chafe under her duties, only strove harder to please. And if she felt any bitterness, seeing her two younger siblings carry on as they always had, youthful and carefree, she crushed it by sheer force of will. Even after Mother’s death, she found joy in life, happiness in her duty. She was loved, and she was needed.

And because she served as lord Hoster’s eyes, she was the first to read lord Rickard Stark’s missive, offering a union between houses Tully and Stark. Her voice cracked when she read the name of the one who might someday be her husband. _Brandon Stark_.

Such a simple name, to hold such promise for her future.

She was the one to write down Father’s reply, her hand shaking so badly she had to rewrite the letter three times before deeming it acceptable. She insisted upon carrying the letter to the rookery herself, attaching it to the raven’s leg with great care. She watched it fly away with all her hopes.

She didn’t tell Lysa or Petyr about the offer, didn’t even tell uncle Brynden, the closest of her confidants. Lord Hoster had told her it was their secret, only until an understanding could be reached and finalized. And Cat would never betray Father’s trust.

Four more months of correspondence between Winterfell and Riverrun passed before Father signed his approval to the match. Trade agreements were shrewdly negotiated, and Cat struggled to learn as much as she could during negotiations. In truth, her head was full of Brandon Stark and little else.

But in the end, it was done.

At barely thirteen, it was announced that Catelyn Tully, lord Hoster’s firstborn, was engaged to be married to the heir of Winterfell. She thanked her father for making such a splendid match for her, feeling truly grateful for her lot in life.

Uncle Brynden hugged her and wished her well when he heard the news, his smile gentle and genuine. Edmure too, rushed to hug his sister. Lysa was subdued, and offered her congratulations in a small voice.

Petyr said nothing at all.

Her father called for a feast in honor of the engagement, and to celebrate the end of the feud between lords Bracken and Blackwood. It was the first feast held at Riverrun since her mother’s passing, and the first in which the Tully sisters were allowed to taste wine. The rich red wine made her giddy, made her pulse throb and her palms sweat. She agreed to share a dance with Petyr, then another, and another, and another… They danced six dances together, twirling and laughing, earning them a petulant glance from Lysa, and a stern one from uncle Brynden. Flushed with embarrassment, she left Petyr and escaped outside for some fresh air.

 _A newly betrothed maid does not dance six dances with a man who is not her intended!_ She imagined the septa’s dismay. _But it’s only little Petyr,_ she thought to herself, _surely there can be no harm in dancing with a boy who is like a second brother to me._

But Petyr followed her, and when he caught up to her he tried to kiss her. Short as he was, he had to rise on his toes to reach her mouth, and the kiss was awkward as it was unwelcome. It was different from all those other kisses, the ones they’d shared for practice. This kiss frightened her. Not only because Cat was now engaged, but because she felt the intent behind it. His mouth pressed firmly against her, and his tongue ran along the seam of her mouth, trying to gain access. She pushed against his slim chest with all her might, blind with panic, and Petyr staggered away, opening those grey-green eyes.

For once, Petyr’s eyes weren’t laughing. He stared at her, long and hard, eyes wide and breathing labored.

_What will the Septa say now?_

Cat threw her head back, and laughed.

She laughed because she was embarrassed, and because surly Petyr could see the folly of his actions. He was like a younger brother to her, almost four years her junior. He was also barely a nobleman. Only the son of an unimportant, minor vassal of house Arryn, with barely a title to his name. And he knew she was meant for another man, a greater man. She laughed because it was the kind thing to do, to offer him a chance to laugh it off with her.

But Petyr did not laugh.

Instead, he turned around and left silently, back rigid and shoulders tense. Cat was left alone, in the darkness of her father’s gardens. The laughter died uncomfortably in her throat.

When she returned to the feast, almost an hour later, she was told by an angry Lysa that Petyr had drunk too much and became so disorderly uncle Brynden had been forced to carry him off to bed. Cat drew herself to her full height, and sniffed with disapproval.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t danced with him so much and then _abandoned_ him, he wouldn’t have felt the need to drink”, her younger sister accused her. The vehemence of Lysa’s words was unexpected. _Had she somehow witnessed us…?_ The thought filled Cat with dread. _It was so brief, and the gardens were so dark, surely…_

 _I did not ask him to kiss me,_ she reminded herself firmly. Even if Lysa saw something, Cat wasn’t to blame. _This is all Petyr’s fault._

Preoccupied with private thoughts, Cat failed to notice when Lysa left the hall. And after carefully convincing herself she could not be blamed for Petyr’s wrongdoings, she submerged herself in the festivities, and so failed to notice her sister did not return for the rest of the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following five years brought changes to her family; changes she was at a loss to explain.

Father and uncle Brynden had a falling out, and though the Blackfish chose to remain in Father’s service, the rift between brothers continued to grow. Uncle Brynden began to leave them for long stretches of time, taking on more and more errands away from Riverrun. It pained Cat, greatly. All of Hoster’s children were fond of their uncle. He was the one they ran to as children, the one they shared tales and tears with.

Edmure, in particular, took the absence of his uncle’s support most severely. Only ten, the heir to Riverrun quickly grew wild and hot-tempered, and Father had neither strength nor will to tame his nature.

Lysa, too, was changing. The shy, sweet-natured girl became resentful, brooding, and secretive. Their private conversations were over. Even had she not been busy with running a castle, Cat had no idea what words might breach the walls her sister had erected between them.

They exchanged letters, sometimes, written in their secret language. But all Lysa wrote was of how cruel Father was, of how he had denied her a chance at happiness. For a while, Cat was confused, until she realized Lysa was almost sixteen, and without a match. So Cat broached the subject with Father, meaning to encourage him to find a husband for her sister.

She was met with thunderous silence and a furious look.

“I will betroth your sister just as soon as I find a worthy man who is willing to have her”, lord Hoster said when he found his voice. His blue eyes warned not to question him further.

Afterwards, in the privacy of her bed, she wondered whether Father’s words meant he had offered Lysa’s hand to someone and had been met with refusal. She could think of several young men who would do for her sister. True, lord Robert Baratheon was engaged to Lyanna Stark, and Jaime Lannister had just been named to the Kingsguard… But Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s younger brother, was unspoken for, as were prince Oberyn of Dorne, who was brother to the future queen, and young Willas Tyrell, the heir to the Reach and all its fortune…

She was rallying her courage to speak with Father again, had even made a list of all the eligible men she could think of. But then it was announced that her future husband was traveling to Riverrun, to be present at her side when their wedding date was announced, and she promptly forgot all her good intentions.

She was eighteen and impatient to be wed when Brandon Stark finally arrived at Riverrun, riding effortlessly atop a spirited grey stallion and wearing a white surcoat of fine white velvet, with a direwolf badge over his heart. The sight of her betrothed filled her with joy. He was truly everything a maiden could wish for.

At twenty, the man they called the wild wolf was as handsome as any she’d ever seen. Tall and broad, he had the Starks’ brown hair and long face, but his eyes were as grey as a winter storm, and equally mesmerizing. His smile was wide and generous, and his voice was so deep she felt it reverberating through her body when he whispered his admiration in her ears.

“They told me I’m to be married to the most beautiful woman in Westeros”, his mouth was so close, his lips brushed over the shell of her ear. “But I couldn’t possibly imagine how right they were.”

In a land where legendary beauties such as Ashara Dayne and Cersei Lannister existed, his words were certain to make her blush as red as her hair. Cat didn’t quite believe him, but she was more than happy to accept his honeyed words. His tone and mannerisms were, perhaps, more familiar than propriety dictated, but they’d been engaged for five years and he was to be her husband. Soon. So Cat allowed his easy flirting, and took pleasure in it.

 _It is my duty to please him,_ she reckoned. _And to be pleased with him._

Brandon’s stay in Riverrun was extended, affording her time to acquaint herself with the stranger who was to be her husband. He was charming and handsome and gallant, but she learned quickly he was also passionate and stubborn. Refusing his kisses was hardly an option, though she certainly did not object too vigorously. He was a wonderful kisser, skilled and not at all shy. She could tell he had practiced, wondered jealously who was the one to teach him such a skill.

A second thought, far more troubling, soon followed. _How many women has he kissed? How many has he known intimately?_ After all, the handsome, charming son of a great lord could hardly want for company, and she now knew Brandon Stark was a man of great passion.

That thought alone was enough to remind her of her honor as a maiden. Cat became determined not to let him into her bed before their vows. Brandon accepted her refusals gracefully. He told her he was willing to wait most patiently for such a prize. His sparkling grey eyes were full of wild amusement, and she realized he was confident she would succumb to his coaxing sooner, rather than later.

She began to understand Brandon Stark was an arrogant man.

In truth, his arrogance was not entirely unjustified. He was heir to the North, the largest of the seven kingdoms, a direct descendant of the Kings of Winter. He was also an incredibly skilled swordsman, a talented jouster, and beyond a doubt the greatest horse rider she’d ever seen. It seemed everything came easily to this man, and she realized that she, too, had come easily to him.

“Your betrothed is certainly one of a kind, dear Cat”, ser Brynden muttered one day as they watched Brandon disarm another rival with ease. Her uncle seemed amused by her future husband. He had taken to sparring with the young wolf whenever an opportunity presented itself. Whether words or actual blows were exchanged seemed to matter not to the Stark heir, much to ser Brynden’s obvious delight. “I’m sure he will do quite nicely for the task of securing your maidenly affections.”

She laughed her pretty laugh, her gaze never leaving her intended’s graceful form.

“Well uncle”, she replied in a soft voice, “Since _you_ find him so agreeable, I shall endeavor to do the same.”

Ser Brynden’s low, hoarse laughter soon joined her own. It was a good sound, one she had not heard in a long time.

And she thought, she dared to hope, that she could be happy in her marriage. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all went terribly wrong when Petyr challenged Brandon to a duel.

Small, scrawny Petyr, who hadn’t spoken more than a word to her in over a year, suddenly declared his love and demanded the right to fight Brandon for her hand. She hardly knew which was more mortifying- Petyr’s unexpected words, or Brandon Stark’s response.

The wild wolf stared curiously at the boy, who appeared so much younger than his fourteen years, and burst out laughing.

“Fight you? For my intended’s hand?” the young Stark could barely articulate the words, he was laughing so hard. Petyr kept his ground, but his face was turning an alarming shade of red. Cat could feel the blush covering her own cheeks, and silently bid the gods to cease her torment.

“I rather think I’ve more to fear from my lady should I take up the gage, than from you, little _boy_.”

Brandon was smiling as he uttered the words, but it was a cruel smile, full of malice. Petyr was small and insignificant, and at only fourteen, hardly worth the notice of a warrior of Brandon’s skill. But Petyr did not back down, nor did he rescind his challenge, and to refuse him, Cat knew, would bring shame upon her betrothed.

She wanted to speak up, to convince Petyr to abandon this crazy notion. He couldn’t possibly hope to win, could only expect to find death or shame at the end of such a confrontation. And though she had never loved him as he claimed to love her, he’d been a brother to her for many years. She had no desire to see him dead.

But it was rude and unladylike to intervene when two men were talking, and she knew her duty all too well. So Cat remained silent, even when Petyr’s stubbornness finally outlasted Brandon’s humor, and watched in terror as his temper was provoked. The wild wolf lived up to his name, ferocious and swift as he accepted Petyr’s challenge, before ordering his men to remove the boy from his sight. His wrath was terrible to behold, and she realized she could very easily come to fear the man.

Afterwards, she tried to reason with Petyr in private, with only ser Brynden as witness. They had not spoken to each other in many months. The familiarity which had once existed between them was gone. Cat hardly recognized the young man standing before her, his slim features hardened with stubborn resolve. She tried desperately to make him see he did not love her, that he had mistaken brotherly affection for something else. She reminded him of Brandon’s skill with a sword, of his larger frame and greater strength.

And when she saw reason will not sway him, she tried to plead.

She reminded him of their years together, of the fondness they’d always shared. She told him she would be saddened by his death, that she’d rather see him live. She told him she would mourn him, if he were to die.

But Petyr Baelish was not to be persuaded, and when her voice became so thick with emotion it almost broke, uncle Brynden grabbed her by the arm and shoved her out the door.

“Leave the poor fool alone, Cat”, ser Brynden’s voice was cold. _Why is he angry?_ Cat wondered, hurt and confused. _I did not ask him to do this. This is all Petyr’s fault._

Later that night, her betrothed proved to be just as immune to reason as Petyr. But he was far more susceptible to her womanly pleas.

“Fine!” Brandon eventually exclaimed. The smile he wore showed he had regained his good humor. “I will not kill your little friend, but only for your sake.” The kiss he stole from her then was deep and wild and she paid his price without hesitations, grateful to know she had spared Petyr’s life.

“You know I will do anything to make you happy, don’t you?” Brandon Stark asked her in his low voice, and there were stars falling in his grey eyes.

Cat wanted to believe him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The duel was more brutal than she could’ve ever imagined. Brandon tried to stay true to his promise, at first. He disarmed Petyr within seconds, and asked the boy to yield in a placating voice. Petyr refused, and Brandon struck at him with the flat of his sword. It was not a heavy blow by any measure, yet strong enough to send the slim boy crashing to the ground. Cat watched as Petyr struggled to rise back to his feet, eyes wide with shock and pain.

Brandon repeated the offer for Petyr to yield.

Petyr repeated his refusal.

It went on, back and forth, a blow followed by an offer, an offer met with stubborn refusal. And inevitably, Brandon Stark lost his patience. Cat could see the moment when his anger flared to life and overcame his handsome features. He became a true northern savage, fearsome to behold.

He went after Petyr with his full strength, his movements so fluid they seemed more of an elaborate dance. He spun easily behind the boy, sword cutting effortlessly at the back of Petyr’s legs, just under the knees. The sight of Petyr dropping to the floor like a bloody ragdoll was only half as terrible as the scream he uttered. It was a sound of utter terror, of the deepest pain. Cat had to resist the urge to cover her ears.

“Do you yield?!” Brandon’s cry was fierce, but he did not wait for an answer.

Instead, the wild wolf picked Petyr’s unresisting form with one hand, and tossed him back down the short flight of steps separating the yard from the gardens. There was a terrible dull sound as Petyr’s slim body hit the ground and came to lay sprawled awkwardly on his back. Cat could see he had lost consciousness.

_Surely he must stop now?_

“Do you yield?!” the cry was unnecessary, as no reply could be made, but she soon realized Brandon had failed to notice Petyr’s state. In his bloodlust, he advanced down the steps. His sword was thrust down with blinding speed, cutting a deep gash across Petyr’s abdomen.

There was so much blood.

“Lord Stark!” she hardly recognized her own voice, so high and distressed. She knew it was a violation of the rules of engagement. But Petyr was bleeding so much, and Brandon was frightening her. “Brandon, _please_ , show mercy! He’s just a boy!”

Brandon halted as soon as her voice rang across the yard. Silence had fallen over the gathered crowd, and stares were being pointed in her direction. But Cat only cared for the gaze of one man. She breathed a sigh of relief when those piercing grey eyes found hers.

All she cared for were the stars, falling in those grey depths.

Turning back to the body at his feet, Brandon seemed to come to his senses. He tossed his sword to the ground, while his left hand rubbed distractedly over his breastplate, over his heart, where he carried her favor. He seemed lost.

She wasn’t so sure she could be happy in her marriage. Not anymore.

After the fight was over, Petyr’s unconscious body was rushed to the maester. He survived, barely. She was told the cut across his abdomen would leave a hideous scar.

Cat did not care. Why should she? Everything was Petyr’s fault. He had ruined everything. He deserved neither her kindness nor her well-wishes. She did not come to see him, did not ask after his recovery. And she did not come to bid him farewell, on the day Father sent him away from Riverrun.

It was for the best, she believed, that Brandon was to ride out on the same day, to meet his lord father as he traveled south for the wedding. He spared Catelyn no kind words before his departure, and did not ask after Petyr. His grey eyes were stormy when he took his leave of her, and the stars within them were falling, falling…

“We will be wed when I return, sweet Cat”, he told her softly, giving her a forced smile. “This sad business is over and done with, and we will be husband and wife very soon.”

She allowed him to have a kiss from her, the gentlest he had ever taken, and watched him ride away on his grey stallion ‘till he faded from sight.

In truth, no matter the lifetime, no matter its unique flow and its minute changes, she never exchanged vows with him. The man they called the wild wolf was like a falling star upon the fabric of time, brilliant and mesmerizing, forever quick to fall down and burn out. In this lifetime, and in every other, this was the last time she ever saw Brandon Stark alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, a 500-words-layout has turned into a beast of over 8K. And, despite my best efforts, I just cannot bring myself to finish all the little nitpicking that needs to be done for the second part of this installment *today* (too much to do, too little time).
> 
> So, just to keep true to the deadline I've set, I'm posting the first half of the chapter today, and will probably post the rest either tomorrow or on Friday, depending on my workload and my strength of will. Have I mentioned how desperately in need of a beta I am?
> 
> The next part will dive straight into the beginning of the Rebellion from Cat's POV, and (of course) her shotgun wedding to Ned. I hope at this point you all know what the result of their wedding night is going to be (*wink*wink*). Stay Tuned!
> 
> As you may have realized, there's quite a lot of prologue written for this story. For those of you wondering when we'll start with the actual story, I will only say this: the title of chapter three is "Northern Wolves and Southorn Customs". It should be up in about a week. Once again- Stay Tuned!
> 
> Sincerely yours,  
> L&T


	3. Of Husbands and Sons II

The tale of Lyanna Stark’s abduction set every tongue in Riverrun wagging. A maiden of fifteen, the daughter of one great lord and the promised wife of another, abducted by the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, a married man, almost twice her age.

It beggared belief.

Neither Brandon nor his father, lord Rickard, came to Riverrun after that. Brandon rushed to King’s Landing, intent on retrieving his sister. Lord Rickard, more cautious and more dangerous, rode back to Winterfell and summoned his bannermen.

Rumors reached them from the Vale, saying young lord Baratheon was furious, that he was urging lord Arryn to threaten the crown with rebellion, should his intended not be returned.

Despite all of this, lord Hoster remained convinced war was not imminent. For weeks, as she paced around restlessly, he assured her everything would be resolved swiftly, promising the next letter from Winterfell will bring news of Lyanna and Brandon’s return.

When it finally arrived, the next raven from Winterfell bore only ill tidings. King Aerys had arrested Brandon, charging him with attempted murder of the crown prince. The king was demanding lord Rickard’s presence in the capitol, to answer for his heir’s crimes.

Only days later, lord Stark’s party made a hasty stop at Riverrun on their journey south. Lord Rickard Stark was as tall as Brandon, and age had made him wider. He shared Brandon’s long face, though most of it was covered by a thick, grey beard. The lord of Winterfell arrived dressed for war, with steel armor and a sword at his side. His party was made of some of his most prominent bannermen; but all of them were old men. They were the ones who had sent their sons south with Brandon, Cat realized. Like their liege, the men were armored from head to toe, swords strapped to their hips and backs. She recognized the armored fist of house Glover, silver against a field of scarlet, and recalled that lord Glover’s son, Ethan, served as Brandon’s squire.

She no longer believed war could be avoided. She saw it in their eyes. Their honor demanded recompense. They would not accept the King’s justice, should he find their sons guilty for their alleged crime. They would not sit idly by, while their blood was spent so carelessly.

Lord Tully and lord Stark spent an hour ensconced in Father’s solar. When they emerged, lord Stark refused all her offers of food or rest. His smile was surprisingly kind when he apologized to her, explaining he preferred to be on his way as soon as possible. Many times, later in life, Cat would come to recall the sight of lord Stark’s beautiful golden spurs as he sprung to the saddle with the grace of a much younger man. A bright piece of jewelry, seemingly out of place on such a harsh man. Much like his kind smile.

The following day, Father sent out his ravens, ordering all his bannermen to take up arms. For the first time in her life, Cat witnessed the true power of her house as their sworn lords sent in their replies, reaffirming their loyalty to house Tully, promising varying numbers of knights and footmen.

It seemed there would be no wedding between herself and Brandon Stark. Cat spent most of her days in the sept, praying to each of the Seven in turn for Brandon’s safety, even though the Starks were of the north, and held only to the Old Gods. Sometimes she prayed for peace, for the king to show benevolence. Mostly though, she prayed for Brandon.

But when the rebellion inevitably erupted, both Brandon and lord Rickard were already dead. No one would tell her how they’d died. She understood that meant both father and son had died horrible, cruel deaths, bereft of honor or dignity. As she cried, alone in the sept, Cat came to understand the name she’d heard whispered in dark corners over the years.

_Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King._

Even so, it was only when the king commanded old lord Arryn to execute his two wards that the lord of the Vale finally raised his banners and declared war upon house Targaryen. And even then, the rebellion was slow to start. Lord Arryn had to fight his way out of the Vale, immediately facing opposition in Gulltown, where Targaryen loyalists attempted to cut him off.

The rebels’ first victory was swift and merciless, and travelers were eager to share tales of Robert Baratheon’s fury, of how he had been the first to breach Gulltown’s walls, and the one to cut down lord Arryn’s defiant vassal, Marq Grafton. When uncle Brynden inquired after lord Arryn’s second ward, the reply was hesitant. They knew nothing of lord Stark, only that he seemed to have vanished.

She wanted to tell them lord Stark had died long before the Taking of Gulltown, before she realized… _They speak of lord Rickard’s secondborn son._ It took her a moment longer to recall a name.

 _Eddard._ The name was strange on her tongue, stilted and harsh.

_Eddard is now lord Stark._

She waited patiently, silently, to see how Father might act, but lord Hoster made no preparations to march. Ravens were arriving daily, bearing many seals. She recognized the falcon of house Arryn, and the Baratheon stag. There was also a raven from King’s Landing, bearing the three-headed dragon of house Targaryen. In his letter, the king ordered her father to bring his forces under the command of lord Jon Connington, who had been given command of the Targaryen army.

“Curious”, uncle Brynden muttered as his blue eyes pursued the parchment. Her uncle’s silver, bushy eyebrows were knit together. From what little Cat could see, the handwriting was weak and erratic, barely legible in parts.

“What is?” She was desperate for any scrap of news.

Lord Hoster was the one who answered. “The king has named lord Connington as his commander. A curious choice. Where is the prince? Where is the Sword of the Morning or the White Bull? They have the mettle to lead men into battle. Connington would not be my choice.”

The questions went unanswered. Ravens continued flying in and out of the castle. But lord Hoster Tully remained in Riverrun, and did not march.

Word arrived that lord Baratheon had managed to reach Storm’s End, raise his banners, and crush all remaining opposition in the Stormlands. Lords Fell, Cafferen and Grandison had tried to gather their strength against him. The young stag was said to have made a mad dash for Summerhall, arriving well before his enemies could settle and crushing them one at a time. Lord Baratheon meant to turn west now, to take on the Tyrell force that was gathering in Highgarden.

Still, lord Hoster Tully did not march.

A raven came from the north, and for the first time in many moons Cat saw the direwolf of house Stark. Eddard Stark had returned to Winterfell, the letter said, and had raised a northern army of some twenty thousand men. He meant to march down, through the riverlands, to join his strength to those of lords Arryn and Baratheon. He asked permission to pass through lord Tully’s lands, and politely suggested they might join their forces.

She refused to write down the reply her father dictated, leaving him for the first time in years to call upon the castle’s maester.

Lord Hoster wrote-  
_‘House Tully will not prevent Stark forces from passing on their way south._  
_Expect no further aid.’_

Lord Baratheon suffered his first defeat at the hands of the Tyrell army. His host was overrun by Randyll Tarly’s vanguard. The young lord escaped north by the skin of his teeth, in a desperate attempt to regroup with lord Arryn, all while lord Stark rushed down from the north. The Tyrell host swarmed east, to lay siege against Storm’s End, where lord Baratheon had left his younger brother with only a small garrison to hold the ancient castle.

A second raven arrived from King’s Landing, announcing a Targaryen army had left the capitol and was marching north in pursuit. The letter was written by a different hand this time, a steady one, the letters loping and graceful. It was signed by the hand of the king, and carried the seal of a griffin, the sigil of Connington’s house.

It also carried an open threat.

Lord Connington urged lord Tully to ride out and help him smash the traitor Baratheon in a pincer maneuver. He assured lord Tully that once the rebellion was inevitably put down, the crown would look to each of the great houses in turn, to award loyalty with generosity, and treason with fire and blood.

Uncle Brynden fumed and demanded to be given orders. The Blackfish believed they ought to align themselves with the rebels, disliked the forced idleness, and dared to shout his frustration at his brother and liege. For all his airs, he got no response.

Lord Hoster Tully did not march.

The Battle of the Bells became infamous overnight. Jesters played out Connington’s hunt for Robert between the houses of Stoney Sept, while behind them fools mimicked the clanging of the town’s bells. Traveling hedge knights boasted of having ridden faster than the wind with lord Stark’s host, as he raced to Baratheon’s side. Singers sang of valiant deeds, even while rumors started swirling that the crown prince had returned to King’s Landing, and was amassing a second, larger host.

Another raven arrived with the mark of house Arryn. Cat had lost count how many had come since the rebellion began. Jon Arryn’s letter was short and perfunctory, bearing no elaborate greetings and no pretty words.

It simply read-  
_‘What will it take?’_

A reply was sent the following day, written in Cat’s careful hand. She had to struggle to keep her hand steady, and only narrowly avoided smudging the ink. Father’s message was cryptic, full of young wolves and aging falcons. She dared not ask him for its meaning. But for the first time since Brandon left Riverrun, lord Tully appeared pleased.

His answer came soon enough, though not by raven. It came when, five days later, the entire host of the rebel houses came to camp outside Riverrun’s walls. Her father did not open the sluice gate when the outposts reported the army’s approach. If lord Tully had been expecting an attack, he would have opened the gate and allowed the water to fill the wide moat which surrounded the castle. It would’ve turned Riverrun into an island in essence, making the castle practically unassailable. Cat assumed it meant Father was expecting a friendly exchange. His smug smile certainly seemed to suggest so.

That night, in the privacy of lord Hoster’s solar, Father calmly revealed his plans for the future. Cat sat quietly, ever the composed Lady, and listened attentively, masking the surprise she felt rising with every word. It was a great thing her Father sought to gain. Lord Tully had carved a great future for his house, it seemed, one which could possibly lead them all the way to the Iron Throne.

The following day, Cat watched from the parapets as a group of six rode across the drawbridge into Riverrun’s triangular yard. Three were standard bearers, one for each of the great houses present. The other three were easily recognizable, though she had never met any of them in person.

Old lord Arryn’s hair was white and frail, but he sat tall and proud atop his chestnut destrier. The lord of the Eyrie wore an armor that shone in the sunlight like polished silver, and his breastplate was studded with thousands of small sparkling sapphires. His cloak was so long it draped across his mount’s hindquarters, made of velvet of the deepest shade of blue, patterned with soaring falcons made of silver thread.

Of the three, only lord Arryn seemed appropriately dressed for the day’s events.

Lord Baratheon was the tallest of the party, made to look even taller by the helmet he wore, crowned by a pair of great antlers. It gave the young lord the appearance of a horned god of some great forest. And once he took the thing off, she could easily tell he was also the handsomest of the party. His jet-black hair and bright blue eyes were arresting, and his strong jaw lent to his air of male strength. He smiled easily, the lord of Storm’s End, and seemed intent on mocking his two somber companions. In his plain armor and without a cloak, Cat would’ve hardly known him were it not for his helmet. She afforded the antlers one final glance, appreciating how real they seemed, as if they’d been taken right off the head of some great stag.

Compared to lord Arryn’s splendor and lord Baratheon’s warrior grace, young lord Stark seemed utterly unremarkable. If Cat had expected to see a younger version of Brandon, she had been sorely mistaken.

Lord Stark was of average height and average build, and shared the Starks long face. The young man had a closely-cropped beard, a shade darker than the brown locks on his head, which made him seem far older than his eighteen years. _And far older than Brandon ever did_ , she thought, unkindly. She couldn’t find anything appealing in lord Stark’s appearance, nothing admirable in his grave expression or in his uneasy movements. He was plain, though not ugly.

His cloak was the only thing about the man which made her truly gasp. It was not a thing of beauty, not in the traditional sense at least. It was such a large thing, made of snow-white furs and trimmed with silver cloth, so heavy that rather than a simple clasp it was secured to the young lord’s chest by two wide leather straps.

She knew what this cloak had to be, and her heart couldn’t help but beat faster as she gazed upon a thing of legend. As a young girl she had been taught the histories of the Kings and Queens of Winter, of the proud northern kingdom that had retained its independence long after the other six had knelt before the Targaryens and their dragons. The last to bear the title of Queen in the North had been Lyarra Stark, and by all accounts the Wolf-Queen had been loved fiercely by her northmen.

She had also captured, quite unintentionally, the heart of Maekar Targaryen, the prince of Summerhall. The fourth son of king Daeron II had been a harsh man, lacking the ability to please and make friends easily. When he first fell in love with the wild Winter Queen, the young prince found he could not express his love by any spoken words. And even had he been as smooth of tongue as his older brothers, Lyarra was a daughter of the north, and cared little for sweet words of shy love. To prove his love and his worth, prince Maekar traveled north, beyond the wall, to hunt the giant bears of the arctic wastes. Upon his return, a year later, he laid at the queen’s feet the most beautiful cloak she had ever seen, made of pristine white fur to match the fairness of her pale skin.

They married a week later, and Maekar took on a new coat of arms- a quartered shield, two parts the Stark direwolf, two parts the three-headed dragon of his father’s house. Every story ever written of them claimed theirs was a happy marriage. The wild queen and her harsh prince, a union of ice and fire.

It was their marriage that helped house Targaryen overcome the Blackfyre rebellion. Bound to the Targaryens by matrimony, the northern queen had come down with her army to join the battle raging at Redgrass Field, turning certain defeat into a glorious triumph. Led by Maekar himself, it was said the northern vanguard came down upon the Blackfyre lines like a tidal wave upon the shore.

Several years later, following his brothers’ deaths during the Great Spring Sickness, Maekar came to be the sole heir to the Targaryen throne. Unwilling to be parted from him, his Winter Queen put down her crown and followed him south, and became queen of all seven kingdoms. Her younger brother, Torrhen, took up the title of Warden of the North, and became the first lord Stark of Winterfell.

But when she left her beloved people, the last Queen of Winter also left behind the winter cloak her husband had made for her. The heavy white cloak, a symbol of northern power, had been passed down the Stark line ever since, for neigh on a century.

And Cat knew that tonight, in her father’s Godswood, lord Eddard Stark, _plain, unremarkable Eddard Stark_ , would take off her maiden cloak of red-and-blue, and wrap queen Lyarra’s cloak around her slim shoulders, claiming her as his wife.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wedding was quick and uncomfortable, and Lyarra Stark’s cloak weighed heavy on her shoulders while she exchanged vows with a stranger.

As befitting a northern lord, the wedding was held in the Godswood, and the vows spoken were offered to the Old Gods of the north. These were cold, vengeful gods, which Cat knew not. But the Starks had the blood of the First Men running in their veins, and they gave worship before white weirwood trees rather than in warm septs. There were no weirwood trees south of the neck, but even so far away from Winterfell, a Stark would never deign to wed a bride unless it was done under tree and sky.

The Godswood at Riverrun was a bright and airy garden, made of tall redwoods and old elms overlooking streams. Catelyn knew the heart tree that stood at its center, a tall elm with a split trunk, but its sad face had frightened her as a child, and she had never sought shade or shelter beneath its canopy of green leaves.

The kiss lord Stark bestowed upon her at the end of the ceremony was a small, rough peck. She couldn’t help but notice that, unlike his dead brother, lord Stark did not have to bend down a long way to reach her lips.

Up close, she could see his eyes were a grey so deep they almost appeared black. It made her think of smoke, and somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered falling stars.

There were no stars shining in Eddard Stark’s sad eyes.

Lysa’s wedding, which was held directly after her own, was worse.

Lysa’s eyes were red and swollen, her complexion ashen. Lord Arryn didn’t seem particularly pleased either, his mouth a stern line beneath his aquiline nose. He only attempted to smile once, right at the end before he leaned down to kiss her, but when he did everyone could see the lord of the Eyrie was missing half his teeth, and the sight only seemed to scare Lysa further. Her sister flinched when her new husband leaned down for her lips, and lord Arryn ended up kissing her chin instead.

Robert Baratheon didn’t bother containing his laughter, a booming sound which echoed round the sept. Others tried valiantly to stifle their snorts. At her right, lord Stark gazed at the couple with a pained expression, probably grateful to have avoided such a scene. On her left, lord Hoster’s expression was thunderous.

Lysa blushed so deeply, the red of her cheeks matched the red of her eyes.

Lord Arryn pulled back to his full height, a frown gracing his lined face. He cast a disapproving glance at his former ward, and much to everyone’s surprise, Robert shut his mouth promptly and straightened his back.

She soon found out that silence did not come naturally to Robert Baratheon. The large, boisterous man seemed to be the only one at the high table who was truly enjoying himself at the wedding feast. He drank, heavily, and talked, loudly. No serving maid was safe from his wandering hands, and it seemed the only reason he had not taken one into his lap was because lord Arryn leveled him with a withering glare from time to time, to keep the man in check. He hardly struck Cat as a man in agony over the loss of his betrothed. When his cup was empty of wine, lord Baratheon swung it wildly into the air in search of a servant, only narrowly avoiding her new husband’s face. Lord Stark seemed exasperated, while lord Baratheon remained oblivious.

She couldn’t decide which was worse- Baratheon’s exuberance, or her husband’s graveness.

Father’s high table had never been more crowded. Many notable lords rode in the rebels’ camp, and most of her father’s bannermen had come to attend his daughters’ wedding. Only those of the highest standing received a seat, yet the table was packed nonetheless. Though every lord had done his best to dress in finery, Cat could see how tired they all seemed to be. They ate quickly, ravenously, and drank far more than was proper. Lord Yohn Royce and young ser Morton Waynwood sat close to their liege lord, and lord Umber, the one they called the Greatjon, was even bigger and louder than Robert from his place near the end of the table. From the Stormlands she recognized the turtle of house Estermont, and briefly recalled that lord Baratheon’s mother had come from that house.

Dozens more were seated at long tables, so many knights and lords she couldn’t possibly hope to recognize them all. It was rowdier down at the tables, she saw, where the men were free to drink and jest far from the watchful eyes of lords Tully and Arryn.

So, naturally, the cry for a bedding rose up from there.

It was a tall man with a great black beard, bearing the chained giant of house Umber on his chest, who was first to shout the word. The crowd picked it up easily, beginning a chant that soon seemed to rattle the walls of lord Hoster’s great hall. The men pounded on the tables, lending their cries a beat. To Cat, it sounded like the marching drum of war.

Her gut clenched terribly, and she had to force herself to remain at her seat and smile.

The first to grab at her was lord Baratheon, who had no trouble lifting her up and tossing her over his shoulder. She couldn’t help the small shriek which escaped her lips, nor her undignified struggle to keep her balance while handled so precariously. Her wriggling earned her a jolting slap to her rear from the great lord, along with raucous laughter from the men gathering around him.

“Be still lady Stark.” She couldn’t see his face, but she heard the smile in lord Baratheon’s deceptively soft voice. Her new title was enough to stop her from further movement. “Ned will never forgive me if you don’t reach his bed untouched and unspoiled.”

Lord Baratheon proceeded then to make a great show of carrying her away, all the while shouting lewd jests and crowing about his friend’s prowess in the bedchamber. As they climbed up the stairs, he allowed the men around them to take off her shoes and tear at her skirts, but she was surprised to feel his arms anchoring her to his strong body, preventing anyone from truly endangering her modesty. The songs and jokes kept the men occupied and merry, so when Robert finally tossed her unto a large bed she was mostly covered. Only her skirt suffered real damage, having been torn in one place all the way up to her mid-thigh. Lord Baratheon gave her an appreciative glance, apparently not honorable enough to avoid leering at his friend’s wife. A satisfied smirk was gracing his handsome features, one that had more to do with him feeling clever than with her state of undress.

“One maiden in perfect condition, as her lord husband's instructed!” Lord Baratheon gave an exaggerated bow in her direction, earning another peal of laughter from the crowd at his back. He shot her a mischievous wink and a full smile, revealing two charming dimples.

She was certain she would never wish to be married to such a man, but as he closed the door behind him, Cat was forced to admit lord Baratheon was not quite as air-headed as he pretended to be.

Before fear could get to her, Cat began unlacing her dress, knowing it will only be in the way of the upcoming consummation. Despite her resolve her hands shook, and without a maid it took her a while to dress down until she was left in nothing more than a thin linen shift.

She startled when she heard the door creak open, and turned with wide eyes to watch her quiet husband step hesitantly into the room. She could hear several giggling women just outside, but he did not appear to be terribly disheveled. His doublet had been removed, his undershirt untucked from his breeches, and he was missing a boot. Otherwise, her lord husband seemed perfectly decent. She stood still, fighting the urge to cover her form or hide under the blankets.

Catelyn Tully knew her duty.

Her husband stopped abruptly at the sight of her, his grey eyes wide and cheeks tinged with red. It was quite flattering, before his features suddenly turned into a frown.

“I apologize, my lady”, his voice was incredibly soft, and so very, very low. He averted his eyes, much to her confusion. She knew she was beautiful. Why would her own husband not find it pleasing to look upon her?

“I told Robert to keep you safe, I should’ve known better than to trust…” he was rambling, but at least she could now guess at the cause of his distress.

“Don’t be angry with lord Baratheon, please”, her voice brought his gaze back to her, but upon seeing her naked form again her husband immediately blushed and looked away.

“Truly, my lord, he has done everything in his power to preserve my modesty. I undressed myself.”

Her words earned her a scoff, and she felt… _annoyed_. She was annoyed by this man, this stranger whom she had married. This lord who seemed to lack the basic skill of conversing properly, of expressing his thoughts in an amiable manner.

Bitterly, she thought it might be better for them to remain silent, for the time being.

He offered no resistance when she reached for him hesitantly, and silently allowed her to divest him of his undershirt. He remained silent, save for a shaky breath, when she dared to run her palms over his bare chest, feeling the soft sparse hairs, and his protruding ribs. He was a slim man, but there was strength in the muscles she felt beneath her hands, rising and falling with every deep breath he took.

His breath hitched when her hands ran down, over the tight planes of his chest to his abdomen, where a trail of coarse brown hair disappeared into his trousers.

She found she didn’t have the courage to go any further, and she halted her shaking hands, pulling them away until only her fingertips remained pressed against him. She stared at the sight of her dainty hands, too small to cover the expanse of his midriff, and marveled at this forced intimacy.

This stranger was the first man she had ever touched in such fashion, probably the only one she ever would. And she knew nothing of him, wasn’t even certain she could _like_ him.

Her courage failed her entirely and she dropped her hands to her sides, her gaze falling to the floor. The ridiculous sight of his feet, one with only a grey sock to it and the other still covered by a leather boot, made her giggle. It was a small sound, beyond her control. She tried to stifle it, but her chest was in spasms, her shoulders shaking. Her laughter was moments away from turning into hot tears.  

She was silenced when he grasped her chin in his large hand, his touch surprisingly gentle, and lifted her face up to his. His grey eyes were gazing at her curiously, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. There was kindness in his touch, and a gentleness in his gaze.

She drew a deep, unsteady breath, and kept her tears at bay.

“Forgive me, my lord”, she whispered, ashamed of her conduct. “I was surprised by your unusual choice of footwear.”

His eyes widened with surprise and he glanced briefly at his feet. The smile that spread across his face transformed him. He had such a sweet smile, and it instantly erased most of the sadness that had been etched into his long features. It was a boy’s smile, innocent and real. Even his eyes seemed to brighten up, the dark smoke turning into early morning mists. She smiled back instinctively, her first true smile in a long time.

“Ned”, he offered suddenly, but the sound held no meaning for her. He smiled a touch wider and explained. “My friends, my… my family, they all call me Ned.” The sadness returned when he talked of his family, even as the simple, kind gesture of his nickname warmed her heart. She felt it beating faster, aching with the pain she could hear in his voice.

She thought of Brandon and lord Rickard, dying so far away from home, and of him, helpless to save them. She thought of his sister, whom he must love so fiercely, held prisoner and quite possibly raped by the son of the man who killed their father and brother. Oh, and wasn’t she just now seeing her husband truly for the first time? Seeing how the grief of the past few months had aged him well beyond his eighteen years.

She was determined not to weep, so she rose up on her toes and planted a kiss to his lips instead. It was quick and soft and she pulled back before he even had a chance to react.

When she opened her eyes she found him staring, slack-jawed, and it made her smile.

“Ned”, she tasted the name on her tongue. She liked it so much more than _Eddard_. She had a second to catch a brief glimpse of his handsome smile, and then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was so soft, almost too hesitant, and she tried to press harder, tried to show him she was willing. But he stopped and turned to stone against her, barely moving. She pulled back and opened her eyes, finding those sad grey eyes staring down at her with pure mortification, and suddenly, she knew.

Lord Eddard Stark had never kissed a woman before coming to her bed.

The knowledge made her brave, reckless even, and she smiled brightly at her husband. His look of confusion was soon replaced by a stunned expression as she put one hand on his shoulder, and ran the other through the hair at the back of his neck. She planted her mouth firmly against his, showing him how to move his lips against hers. When he began following her movements, hesitant but eager, she pushed her tongue boldly into his mouth to stroke against his.

She was completely in control; he was compliant and soft against her, allowing her to lead wherever she willed. It was exciting, exhilarating, and a thrum of nervous excitement settled at the pit of her stomach.

She led him to bed, and he followed blindly, chasing her mouth for more kisses. His sudden enthusiasm was infectious, his shy touches inflaming her skin.

It wasn’t smooth, and they certainly lacked finesse, but his innocence gave her the confidence she so desperately needed. She felt no shyness when she boldly reached for his belt, almost laughed when he pulled back with a frustrated moan, barely taking the time to shove his trousers off his feet before returning to her embrace. She took her time, taught him what she enjoyed best and he was so eager to learn, to explore her body. She had never thought a man could be as gentle as he was now with her.

There was pain, even though she was very slick between her thighs by the time he started pushing into her. It was unavoidable, as she had been told many times, so she took comfort in his obvious pleasure, in his wide-eyed look of awe as he settled against her and began to thrust. She stared at his face, shameless, as he closed his eyes and lost himself inside her.

She felt possessive of him, of this moment. She felt empowered by the knowledge that she was his first, just as he was hers.

Through the pain she began to move her hips, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, her hands anchored against his flexing shoulders. Her movements spurred him into a frenzy, one she could not keep up with, and he reached completion with an anguished groan, coming to lay against her, broken and spent and absolutely hers.

Later, after he had gently wiped her sweating body with a wet washcloth, after he had blown out the candles and settled back into bed, she curled up against him and took comfort in his warmth. She felt surprisingly peaceful, and very safe. She tried not to think of the morrow, when this gentle stranger would leave her bed and ride off to war. She tried not to dwell on the possibility that this might be the last time she ever saw Ned Stark.

“Cat”, she whispered into his chest, though she suspected he had fallen asleep. His breathing was deep and steady, his heartbeat comforting against her ear. “You should call me Cat.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cat had been ruling Riverrun in Father’s name for three months, ever since lord Hoster rode out to join her husband’s war. Almost every able-bodied man in the castle had gone with lord Tully. She had been left alone with the women, the children, and the elderly.

She had never felt so alone.

She had Lysa, but her sister had been in low spirits ever since her wedding. Once, during dinner, she dared suggest it might be better if their husbands were to find their deaths on the battlefield. It was fortunate that they were supping alone at the high table, with only Edmure for company. Cat had no choice but to scold her sister thoroughly, threatening to lock Lysa away if she ever dared repeat such a dreadful thing.

All she was left with was Edmure, who was quite foolish and had little interest in aiding his sister with the running of the castle. She forced him to sit with her while she talked to the steward and consulted with maester Luwin, but more often than not the boy managed to find an excuse to scurry away.

She was busy. Far too busy to afford being sick. When the morning sickness came she dismissed it as some minor flu, and carried on. When her sense of smell changed, making her recoil from favorite dishes, she shrugged her shoulders and called for dry toast.

She lost weight, and her dresses hung loosely from her wasted frame. She ordered her handmaidens to take them in at the waist. She no longer had the time to mend them on her own, and there was no coin to spare to make new ones.

War, she soon learnt, was difficult even for those who were left behind to wait. In his absence, she had to oversee Father’s crops and fields, had to govern his people, hear their complaints and judge their crimes. Even during war, the small folk mostly troubled themselves with their own petty concerns.

Most of the Riverlands lords had gone with her father, but those who remained were old and obnoxious. Lord Frey, who had gained lord Tully’s scorn by arriving very late to the battle of the Trident, sent her daily ravens, expressing his concerns that she might be overwhelmed by her responsibilities and offering his _kind_ assistance. She was beginning to tire of his incessant badgering.

She was even more tired of writing polite refusals.

Sadly, though Walder Frey was a horrid man, she could not afford to alienate him. He was one of Father’s richest bannermen, and a man well known for holding a grudge over any perceived slight, be it real or imagined. Reluctantly, she kept on faithfully writing her daily notes, thanking him for his kind offer and assuring him that while she was very grateful indeed, house Tully required no assistance to govern its land and people.

She was just finished with her morning letters, rising to make her way down to the kitchens, when the earth began to spin beneath her feet and everything around her turned to blackness.

She woke up in her bed, feeling weak and disoriented, to the swimming vision of maester Luwin’s troubled face. The maester’s voice was unnaturally stern as he ordered her to remain in her place, and encouraged her to sip gently from a glass of water he had set by her bedside.

He listened as she confessed her growing weakness, kindly ignoring her hot tears of frustration. He was a small man, with kind grey eyes, and unlike so many of the men she’d met in life, he had no trouble following the lead of a woman. She was comforted by the knowledge that he was to travel with her to Winterfell when the war was over, glad to count him as part of her future household.

When she was done talking, the maester hummed thoughtfully, one of his hands disappearing into his voluminous sleeves, where she knew he stored various parchments and bottles in hidden pockets. He pulled out a clear bottle filled with finely-ground powder the color of sand. With a steady hand he tipped a generous amount into her glass of water and encouraged her to take a long sip.

The smell of yeast almost made her stomach turn, and the face she made seemed to amuse the little man.

“It is only brewer's yeast, lady Stark”, the maester informed her with a wide smile. He was the only one in the castle who felt at ease using her new title. “It smells bad enough but it will help with the sickness. You must try to eat and sleep more, my Lady, or you will put the babe at risk.”

She stared at him with wide eyes, uncomprehending.

“You are with child, lady Stark, I’m quite sure of it. You will soon begin to show, in about two months or so. I do believe congratulations are in order, but I think I’ll keep them for a time when you do not resemble your father’s sigil quite so accurately.”

She brought a hand up to cover her gaping mouth.

 _A child_. It was inconceivable. _Mother have mercy, I’m with child._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pregnancy was difficult, and often during the following months she wished to be done with it. But when her waters broke, just as maester Luwin had warned her, she found she was ill prepared. Fat and tired as she was, it was preferable to the birthing chamber, where her own mother died trying to give lord Hoster a second son.

She was woefully unprepared for the sheer, overwhelming pain. Luwin called them contractions, but it was hardly an apt name for the torture her body was going through. The maester encouraged her to stand and walk about the room while she could, promising it would ease the agony gripping her muscles. So she walked, biting her lip to avoid screaming, and burying her nails in Luwin’s supporting arm. To his credit, the small man said nothing, though she carved deep crescent marks into his skin.

Even with Luwin at her side, she felt scared, and terribly alone. She had half a mind to call for Lysa, before dismissing the thought. If her sister had wished to assist, she would’ve come when it was announced Cat’s time had arrived. For the first time in years, she wished for her mother. She was so scared, so scared of dying. So scared of failing in this, the most important duty of her life.

Between two stretches of endless pain, she asked the maester how long it would take.

“It varies from woman to woman, my lady.” The maester had the natural ability to maintain his composure, even in the face of her obvious distress. “You have good hips for childbearing, but this is your first time and you’re still walking. I think we have many hours to go before it will be time to begin pushing.”

She started crying, unable to imagine hours upon hours of such endless torture.

“Lady Stark, keep walking.” The maester remained absolutely calm in the face of her tears, offering her his scored forearm in support.

She took his hand, and kept on walking.

Giving birth proved to be the hardest, most painful thing she had ever done. It took her all of the day, and most of the night, and the pain was so excruciating she almost wished for death. Death, at least, would have meant an end to the pain.

It was sheer stubbornness, and a rigid sense of duty, that kept her from giving up. She repeated her house’s words over and over in her head, using them when the pain became too much to bear.

_Family, Duty, Honor._

And so, she bit her lips ‘til they were bleeding, and then she screamed with every contraction until her voice was hoarse. And she fought to stay alive, fought to push even when her body was too tired, giving everything, every inch of her soul, for her child. _Her child_.

Her family.

And when it was over, when maester Luwin pressed a small wrapped bundle into her arms and encouraged her to give the babe suck, Catelyn Stark cried. She cried because she was exhausted, and she cried because she was full of love, an all-encompassing love for the small creature in her arms, who latched to her teat instantly with only the smallest of encouragements.

“She is strong”, the maester told her proudly.

 _She_. The word filled Catelyn with dread. _My baby is a girl._

Perhaps she was too tired to conceal her thoughts properly, because Luwin was quick to pick up on them.

“You are not a southerner anymore, lady Stark”, the maester’s eyes were kind, his tone chastising her fears.

“Your daughter comes from the line of the Wolf-Queen, Lyarra. The Starks give precedence to birth, not sex. As far as your lord husband is concerned, you have given him a healthy, strong heir. Put away your southern notions, my lady, they will do you no good in the north.”

He meant to be comforting, she knew. To assure her she had not failed in her duty to give her husband an heir. But when she looked down at her newborn daughter, all she could think of was poor Lyanna Stark. For all her northern wildness, Lyanna could not defeat her captors, could not avoid being kidnapped. And Cat had seen for herself, over the past months, how hard it was to be a woman, ruling over proud men.

It was not the fear of having failed in her duties that had her petrified, she realized. It was the thought that she had brought this precious girl, _her daughter_ , into a life a constant strife, constant struggle. And should the worst come to pass, should lord Stark be killed during the war, would the northern lords even accept a small babe as their liege? Would they bother with the newborn daughter of a southern lady, who had been married to their lord for less than a year?

“Thank you, maester Luwin”, she forced herself to say, giving the maester a small smile. He was a good man, and he had served her well today, both with his actions and his counsel.

But as she leaned down to press a kiss to her daughter’s head, to marvel at the soft tuft of auburn hair she was born with, and at the deep, sweet scent of her, Cat couldn’t deny the truth. Though she loved her daughter, truly and deeply, everything would’ve been so much simpler, so much clearer, if only she’d given birth to a _son_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quite a bit of AU going on in this chapter, mostly concerning the Starks history. In essence- Torrhen Stark, who is King in the North during Aegon's conquest, does NOT bend the knee, and since Aegon literally has his hands full with fighting Dorne, the North stays an independent kingdom until Lyarra's marriage to Maekar. I think in canon Maekar is actually wed to a lady from house Dayne, but who cares, am I right?  
> Maekar's successor is Aegon V (AKA Egg, AKA Aegon the unlikely), and his successor is Jaehaerys II, and his successor is (yes, you've guessed it), our very own Mad King Aerys II. Hope it's not too confusing. If it is- please feel free to tell me where I lost you and I will try my best to explain.
> 
> Fun Fact: Due to my tinkering madness, in this story maester Aemon, who is also Maekar's son, is actually half Stark!
> 
> So this is it! Prologue is OFFICIALLY over! Next up- Sansa Stark goes to witness an execution with her father and her siblings. You remember what happens then, right?


	4. Northern Wolves and Southorn Customs

In a different lifetime she was a second child, born of love rather than duty, and preceded by a son. There was no need for her to ride out with her lord father to witness executions. She had no taste for such things, found the very idea of such acts ugly and discomfiting. While Arya envied little Bran for being allowed to ride out with his older brothers on his pony, she remained at septa Mordane’s side, pleased with her lot in life.

In this lifetime, however, Sansa was lord Stark’s firstborn, and his heir. So, when her father rode out to uphold the king’s justice, it was her duty to ride along with him, to witness and learn. At fourteen, she was an old hand at justice, and she _hated_ it most passionately.

It was not merely the horror and the blood that came along with taking a man’s life that she despised. She hated everything surrounding such events. She hated waking up before the break of dawn, when the world was dark and cold, and she hated riding such long distances on horseback. She was not a confident horse rider, wary as she was of the unpredictable creatures. Even worse, each and every one of her siblings was so much better at controlling their mounts. They spent their travels talking excitedly, while she struggled to keep her seat.

Most of all, she hated how she had to suffer through these ordeals while wearing a stoic expression of feigned confidence. She must never complain, must never show she was disgusted whether by word or by look. To any observer, stranger or kin, she must forever appear to be the strong heir her father deserved, and the north required. She knew her father wore two faces as well. She could always tell when he was talking to her as Father, and when he was talking as the lord of Winterfell.

She watched him now, as he sat solemnly on his horse, his long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. In the cold morning air, his grey eyes carried a grim cast to them. This was the face of the lord of Winterfell, not of the man who sat before the fireplace in the evening and talked softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest.

The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold air, the stench ripe in her nose. She watched, solemn and unmoving, as lord Stark ordered the man cut down from the holdfast’s wall, where he had been bound foot and hand, to be dragged before them. Seated on Father’s left, she could see how old the man truly was, and how scrawny. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and was dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the night’s watch.

She cast a withering look in her siblings’ direction. Young Bran sat tall on his pony, flanked by Robb and Jon on either side, trying and failing to hide his nervous excitement. Robb had spent their morning ride trying to convince Bran that the man about to be sentenced was a wildling, his sword sworn to the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder. Robb was often silly like that, trying to scare their little brother, and more often than not Arya was eager to play along. Robb, at least, had the decency to look ashamed when their eyes met; Arya, who sat just behind the three boys, had the gall to stick her tongue out at her older sister.

While she tried to shame her unruly siblings into better conduct, she could hear Father ask questions in his low, somber voice. The man, a deserter from the Wall, was barely coherent, rambling about shadows moving in the night and dead things that came with the cold. From what little bits that made sense, she gathered he had lost his ranging party beyond the Wall, and had been so frightened that he simply ran back south, never stopping until he was arrested for desertion. She thought he’d gone quite mad.

More than anything, she pitied the poor man.

Lord Stark gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. As they forced the man’s head down, her lord father dismounted and his ward, Theon Greyjoy, brought Ice forth. The Starks’ ancestral sword was as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing in the world held an edge like Valyrian steel.

Father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. She watched closely as lord Stark took hold of Ice with both hands and said, “In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

She watched, unblinking, as her father lifted the greatsword high above his head. Ice was her birthright, but often she had felt as though it hung over her head much like it now did over the deserter’s. She doubted she would ever be strong enough to lift the greatsword, let alone wield it. And even though it was a ceremonial blade, never meant to be carried in battle, it was nonetheless an ancient symbol of her house’s strength. She knew her inability to wield it, to carry out sentences by her own hand, would be perceived as weakness.

She couldn’t afford to be seen as weak.

Even now, she could feel eyes staring at her, when they should have been staring at the man about to lose his life. They were testing her for any sign of feminine distress, any hint that the sight before her was too much for her delicate sensibilities.

So, Sansa Stark took her horse well in hand, and didn’t look away. 

Her father took the man’s head with a single, sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as summerwine. One of the horses reared on its hind legs and had to be restrained to keep it from bolting. But Sansa kept her eyes resolutely on the headless corpse at her father’s feet.

The head bounced off a thick root and came up near Greyjoy’s feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen, and always found everything terribly amusing. He laughed, and put his boot on the head, kicking it away.

Sansa looked away in distaste, and found her brother’s steady gaze. Jon mouthed the word “Ass”, nodding at Greyjoy. Sansa looked down at her gloved hands, to hide her smile.

She couldn’t help but love her base-born brother. Her mother could barely tolerate his presence in their home, and saw him as a threat to her daughter’s future. But Jon was good and honest, and had been her steady companion since they were little more than babes. For all that he was a boy, and looked more like her father than any of lord Eddard’s trueborn children, Sansa did not envy Jon.

It is she who bore the name Stark, while he would forever remain a Snow.

It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died down and the sun was now higher in the sky. Sansa rode with her siblings, ahead of the main party, but forced them to keep a slow pace for the sake of Bran’s poor pony. She suspected her young brother would ride the little mount to the ground, rather than fall behind.

“The deserter died bravely”, Robb stated with a grand air. Much like herself, he favored their mother’s coloring, the fair skin, red hair and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. At twelve, her brother fancied himself a man grown, and liked to state his opinions as facts. “He had courage, at the least.”

“No”, Jon objected quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they often seemed almost black, but there was little they do not see. Sansa agreed with him whole-heartedly. The deserter had reeked of fear.

Robb, however, was not impressed. “The Others take his eyes, he died well.” Her brother turned to Arya, his favorite partner for mischief. “Race you the bridge?”

“Done!” their sister shouted, kicking her horse forward. Arya was only nine, but the most fearless rider of the Stark children. Robb cursed and followed quickly, with Jon riding at his side, a rare smile on his stern face. Sansa watched them gallop off down the trail, laughing and hooting, the hooves of their horses kicking up showers of snow as they went.

She had no intention of following. She hated the mad beat of the gallop, the sense of almost losing control of her mount. Besides, Bran’s pony could never keep up. After a while, the sound of Robb’s laughter receded, and the woods grew blissfully quiet again. At her side, Bran was silent, lost in thought.

_Perhaps he is also thinking of the ragged man’s eyes._

She heard the rest of the party catch up with them, watched as her father moved to ride on Bran’s other side.

“Are you well, Bran?” Father asked, and the kindness had returned to his stern face. He was asking the question as their father, not as a high lord.

“Yes, Father”, Bran replied, looking up to meet Father’s gaze. Lord Stark was wrapped in his furs and leathers, and mounted on his great warhorse, the grey one Sansa didn’t dare approach. He seemed a giant compared to his young son.

“Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.”

“What do you think?” Father asked.

Bran seemed to think very hard. Sansa hid her smile. She thought her lord father might be doing the same, for even though his mouth didn’t move, the crinkles around his eyes had become more pronounced.

Finally, Bran said, “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

“That is the only time a man can be brave”, Father told him. “Do you understand why I did it?”

“He was a wildling”, Bran said. “They carry off women and sell them to the Others.”

Sansa vowed to have strong words with Robb and Arya. The two were taking their stupid pranks too far. Of all her siblings, Bran was the sweetest, the most trusting. His willingness to believe any sordid tale his brother dreamt up was bound to get him into trouble.

At least now all it did was get a smile from their father.

“Old nan has been telling you stories again.”

_Not old nan, Father, only your beloved children._

“In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the night’s watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.”

Bran looked at her for help, but she could only shake her head. She remembered what it was like, witnessing her first execution. She had been so frightened by the blood, she had spent the ride back to Winterfell fighting back tears. Father’s questions and kind looks had only made it worse, made her feel stupid as well as a coward. She had run back to Mother, weeping, claiming she never wanted to rule Winterfell if it meant taking someone’s life.

She remembered the quarrel which erupted between her parents over the incident, and how guilty and ashamed she had felt, being the sole reason for their argument. Mother had claimed she was too young to see such things, but lord Stark had refused to listen.

“I will not coddle her, Cat”, Father’s voice had brooked no argument. Never before had she heard him speak so coldly to her lady mother. “She must learn to be stronger.”

She had been eight at the time, a year older than Bran was now. That day had served as a painful lesson, but one she never forgot.

_If you must cry, silly girl, do it at night, and into your pillow, when no one will hear or care._

“King Robert has a headsman”, Bran’s uncertain voice pulled her out of her reverie.

“He does”, Father admitted. “As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.”

Father’s grey eyes left Bran and sought hers, but Sansa looked away. They were approaching the riverbank now, the bridge just a few hundred feet away. For a moment, she imagined she saw a dark shadow across the river, just under the other end of the bridge.

“One day, Bran, you will be Sansa’s bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your sister and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”

She could bear to listen no more, and spurred her gentle mare forward into a soft canter, leaving Bran and Father far behind. The bridge drew closer, and there was definitely _something_ on the other riverbank. Whatever it was, it was big and grey, and unmoving.

Finally across the bridge, she could see the huge dark shape, half buried in the blood-stained snow and slumped in death. Ice had already formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman’s perfume, making her horse flare its nostrils and rear its head in dismay. She could glimpse a blind eye, crawling with maggots, and a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. More than anything, it was the beast’s sheer size which made her gasp. It was bigger than Bran’s pony, twice the size of the largest hound in her father’s kennel.

That was when Jon, Robb and Arya suddenly reappeared on the crest of the hill ahead of her. Jon waved at her and smiled, but his smile waned when he saw her distressed expression. Before she knew it, he was pulling up his horse next to hers, his grey eyes finally landing upon the dead beast. Robb and Arya trotted well behind him.

“We must have missed it when we raced across the bridge”, Jon’s voice was almost a whisper. She heard a second sound on the wind, high-pitched, almost like…

“Quite a large thing to miss”, she said distractedly, already moving to dismount. The summer snows had been heavy this moonturn, and she had no wish to attempt the climb down on top of the horse. The mare already seemed eager to bolt. It would have been no good to try and force it any closer.

“Wait. Let me call Father.”

She hardly paid him any attention, barely remembered to nod in his direction. She heard that sound again, that little _whine_.

By the time the party arrived, she was standing knee-deep in white, her hood pulled back and the sun shining in her auburn hair. Arya and Robb had already made their way to her side, both staring at her with wide eyes. In her arms, she cradled her newfound treasure.

She watched as the riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach them. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode, but she could hear the moment when the breath went out of him.

“Gods!” he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.

Jory’s sword was already out. “Sansa, get away from it!” he called as his great horse reared under him.

Sansa smiled a sad smile. “She can’t hurt you, Jory”, she said. “She’s dead.”

She watched as Father forced the rest of the party to dismount beside the bridge before approaching on foot. Bran was the first to jump off, running to her side as fast as his feet could carry him through the heavy snow.

“What in the seven hells is it?” Greyjoy demanded to know as he dismounted.

“A wolf”, Sansa replied coolly.

“A freak”, Greyjoy retorted. “Look at the size of it.”

Bran and Jon reached her, and she smiled as Bran grabbed unto her side, practically shaking with excitement.

“It’s no freak”, Jon said calmly. “That’s a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind.”

Greyjoy scowled. “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.”

“I see one now”, Sansa said, raising her chin in defiance.

Bran, noticing the bundle in her arms, gave a sudden cry of delight. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It was nuzzling blindly against her chest as she cradled it, searching for milk among her leathers, making that sad, whimpering sound. Bran reached for the pup as if spell-bound.

“Go on”, Sansa said indulgently. Arya and Robb had each found two more in the snow. “You can touch her.”

Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned around as Arya said, “Here you go, little brother.” Her sister put one of the pups in Bran’s arms. Sansa smiled as Bran immediately sat down in the snow and hugged it to his face. She could hardly blame him, the pup in her own arms had such soft fur, and it felt incredibly warm against her body.

“Direwolves, loose in the realm, after so many years”, she heard Hullen, the master of horse, muttering. “I like it not.”

“It is a sign”, Jory agreed.

Father frowned. “This is only a dead animal, Jory”, he said, but to Sansa he appeared to be troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he made his way around the body.

“Do we know what killed her?”

“There’s something in the throat”, Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. “There, just under the jaw.”

Father knelt and groped under the beast’s head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.

A sudden silence descended over the party, and the men looked at the antler uneasily, though no one dared to speak. Sansa wondered whether any of their fears came close to her own, unbidden thoughts.

A silly notion, but one she couldn’t shake off. _A direwolf, dead because of a stag._ The direwolf had ever been the symbol of house Stark, and she knew, only too well, what house carried a stag upon its coat of arms.

If it was indeed a sign, it boded ill.

Her father tossed the antler to the side and washed his hands in the snow. “I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp”, he muttered.

His voice broke the spell.

“Maybe she didn't”, Jory said. “I've heard tales… maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”

“Born with the dead”, another man put in. “Worse luck.”

“No matter”, said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”

At her side, Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay.

“The sooner the better”, Theon Greyjoy agreed, and drew his sword. “Give the beast here, Bran.”

“No!” Bran cried out fiercely. “It's mine!” Her little brother grasped at her furs, shooting her a pleading look. She sighed and turned to look at Robb and Arya. Both were holding tight to their pups, a desperate look on their little faces. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.

“Put away your sword, Greyjoy”, she said in her gravest tone. For a moment, she imagined she sounded as commanding as their father, like the ruler she would someday have to be. “We will keep these pups.”

At her side, Bran sagged with relief. _Oh, little brother_ , Sansa thought affectionately. _A stern face and grave tone are not enough to win such battles._

“You cannot do that, child”, Harwin, who was Hullen's son, objected.

“It be a mercy to kill them”, Hullen added.

Sansa looked to her lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. “Hullen speaks truly, daughter. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.”

“No!” Bran and Arya cried out simultaneously. She could feel tears welling in her eyes, and looked away. She would not cry in front of her father. _Never again_.

Mustering her spirits, she forged ahead. “Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week”, she insisted. “It was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk enough.”

“She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse.”

“Lord Stark”, Jon spoke up. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Sansa looked at him with desperate hope. “There are five pups”, he told Father. “Three male, two female.”

“What of it, Jon?”

“You have five trueborn children”, Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your house. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”

Sansa saw her father's face change, saw the other men exchange glances. Oh, but she loved Jon with all her heart at that moment. She understood the great kindness he was showing, knew the count came right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included everyone, even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow.

Their father understood that as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly.

“The direwolf graces the banners of house Stark”, Jon pointed out, shrugging his shoulders. “I am no Stark, Father.”

Their lord father continued to regard Jon thoughtfully. Sansa felt a twinge of misery as she watched the pair, the son so like his father. Perhaps it would’ve been better if Jon was Father’s heir. Jon was more Father’s child than she could ever hope to be. She crushed her childish notions with vehemence, and rushed into the silence her brother had left.

“I will see to it that we all nurse the pups ourselves, Father”, she promised, shooting Robb and Arya her most intimidating glare. They nodded vigorously, for once completely happy to follow her lead. “We will soak towels with warm milk and give them suck from that.”

“We promise!” Bran spoke up, and Arya and Robb hurried to echo the sentiment.

The lord weighed his children long and carefully with his grey eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?”

They all nodded eagerly.

“You must train them as well”, their father said. “You _must_ train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”

She felt the pup squirming in her grasp, and raised it up to press against her cheek. The pup licked at her face with a warm tongue, and she stifled a happy giggle. “Yes, Father”, she said with utter certainty.

“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”

“They won't die”, Arya said, stubborn as always. “We won't let them die.”

“Keep them, then”, their father appeared resigned, but not content. “Jory, Desmond, gather everyone. It's time we were back to Winterfell.”

It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Sansa allowed herself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, her pup was snuggled inside her leathers, warm against her, safe for the long ride home. Everything seemed perfect, but for the fact that poor Jon would have no pup of his own. She vowed to let him play with hers as often as he pleased.

Barely a minute later, Jon pulled up suddenly.

“What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked.

“Can't you hear it?”

She tried, but it was hard to hear anything above the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ground, and the whimpering of her hungry pup. But Jon seemed utterly riveted, listening closely for something else.

“There”, Jon said. He turned his horse around and galloped back to the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.

“He must have crawled away from the others”, Jon said.

“Or been driven away”, their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Sansa thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind. Still, she was so happy for Jon, so…

“An albino”, Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement, and she wanted to slap the smug look off his face. “This one will die even faster than the others.”

Jon gave Father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy”, he said. “This one belongs to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had no idea what to name her wolf.

In a different lifetime, the choice was an easy one to make. Her pup was so gentle, so well behaved, she couldn’t possibly be anything other than ‘Lady’.

In this lifetime, however, she agonized over the decision for days, settling on a name only to discard it moments later as ridiculous. Days turned to weeks as the pups grew bigger and the king drew nearer to Winterfell, and still she remained undecided. She trained with her wolf every day under the kennelmaster’s watchful eye, and waited for inspiration.

Her wolf was loyal and sweet-tempered, far easier to handle than the rest of the litter. Greyjoy said it was because she was weak, not a true direwolf at all. Sansa ignored him. Her wolf may have been the smallest of the litter, not as fierce as Grey Wind and Nymeria, nor as unruly as Shaggydog. But Sansa saw how the little pup watched people with those beautiful golden eyes, how she seemed to understand every spoken word.

A month of preparations for king Robert’s arrival passed by all too quickly. Almost as soon as the announcement was made, the castle was thrown into a frenzy of activity the likes of which Sansa had never known. For weeks she watched as servants rushed about, cleaning rooms and mending bed linens, as hunting parties were sent out to bring game, and as barrels of wine were delivered through White Harbor. Everyone was driven to distraction, even steady maester Luwin and stern ser Rodrik, Winterfell’s master-at-arms. She had not been made to attend a single lesson or practice for weeks, left alone to spend her time as she saw fit.

Sansa was hard pressed to recall a time when she’d had more fun.

She spent hours with her siblings, while they trained their wolves and played in the Godswood, pretending to be great knights and legendary heroes. She even managed to sneak up to join in Arya’s lessons with septa Mordane on several occasions. Sansa loved the strict woman, who had tutored her in the gentle arts of southorn noblewoman ‘til she had turned eight. Sansa had adored learning to sew and sing, to dance and draw.

She had been so happy, back then.

Following her disastrous first execution, everything had changed. Father had demanded she learn how to rule in truth. Maester Luwin, who had been her teacher ever since, was a kind tutor, and endlessly patient. But she did not enjoy studying sums, taxes, laws or military maneuvers half as much as she did learning how to be a proper lady.

But she was the heir to the north, and the north did not abide by southorn customs.

Even so, she was dismayed to discover her stitches had become quite dreadful, not at all the neat, small needlework she had once produced so effortlessly. Her only shred of comfort was knowing that, no matter how bad she’d become, Arya was far worse. Septa Mordane and her sister got along like cats and dogs. Arya had too much wolf blood running in her veins, far too wild for southorn notions of genteel women. Her sister was happiest atop a horse, or swinging her wooden training sword at their brothers.

As she watched Arya agonizing over her pitiful needlework, Sansa reckoned her lady mother had ultimately lost on both fronts. Her eldest daughter, though willing, could ill afford to be gentle in a land that respected only strength. Her youngest, put simply, preferred knives to needles.

She found the right name on the day before the king was due to arrive. Ser Rodrik, done with his share of the preparations, had decided to hold a morning practice. Sansa was forced to rise early and take up her wooden training sword.

Fighting did not come naturally. Sansa was slim and slender, lacking the strength to land heavy blows or the constitution to sustain them. But she was lithe and quick on her feet, and ser Rodrik had taught her to make good use of those qualities. She knew how to hold off attacks, how to tire out stronger opponents until their breath was spent and they became clumsy. She knew where to strike, soft and agile, how to find the weak points in an armor.

She sparred the first few rounds with Jon, watched closely by ser Rodrik. Jon was stronger, bigger; but she was quicker. She landed as many blows as she received, sharing a smile with her brother each time one of them managed to land a clever hit. The exercise was refreshing. Even the thought of the black bruises she was gaining wasn’t enough to dampen her spirit.

But after the quick warm up ser Rodrik had them picking up blunt steel swords, and the unfamiliar heavy weight strained the overused muscles of her arms. Jon, unaware of his sister’s fatigue, was excited to be deemed ready for real steel. She had not seen her brother smile so much in years.

She was far more hesitant.

Steel was new to them, and so ser Rodrik broke up their merry party. She found herself paired off with Theon Greyjoy, while ser Rodrik took on Jon. Theon’s expression was mocking when he came to stand before her. Her good mood was instantly ruined.

At nineteen, Greyjoy was taller and stronger than her brother, and Sansa had seen him fight in the yard. Though he had greater skill with a bow, Greyjoy wielded his steel blade with vicious efficiency. Without ser Rodrik’s watchful eye to keep him in line, he would not hesitate to hurt her.

“Come on, silly girl”, Theon said, his smirk widening into a cruel smile. He only called her ‘girl’ when he was certain none could hear him. His special taunt, just for her. Even Jon didn’t know. Sansa never found the courage to tell him, knowing Jon would rush to confront him. She didn’t want her brother to get into trouble for fighting with the future lord of the iron islands.

She said nothing, forcing her face into a mask of indifference, and kept her stance. The sword was too heavy in her hands, already she struggled to hold it up. She knew she was at a great disadvantage.

Soon enough, Greyjoy’s smile disappeared, and he advanced towards her. “I was going to be nice and give you the chance to land the first blow, silly girl”, he informed her. And then his sword came swinging down.

She spun away, slower than she was accustomed, struggling to drag the weight of the heavier sword along into the movement. Theon’s strike landed too close. When his sword crashed against hers, the impact rattling her bones. When she attempted to swing the blade to catch Theon’s side, she was, again, far too slow. His sword was already there by the time she threw her weight forward, blocking her and sending another painful jolt up her arms.

The sword was too heavy, her arms too tired, and she was too slow to be any match for Greyjoy’s skill. She barely dodged three more swings before he managed to push the hilt of his sword into her ribs with his full strength. She crumbled to her knees with a grunt of pain, feeling the air catch in her lungs. _I can’t breathe._ The pain was spreading quickly through her chest. Tears gathered in her eyes. She tried and failed to hold them back. _I can’t… I can’t breathe…_

She heard the silence fall over the yard. They had all turned to look at her as she fell. Before her, through bleary eyes, she could see Greyjoy begin to bring his sword to her neck. _Cruel._ Only someone as cruel as Greyjoy could take pleasure in humiliating someone so thoroughly while they fought for every painful gulp of air.

_Silly girl._

Theon’s cry of pain came so suddenly, Sansa’s eyes flew open in surprise. The sight was as ridiculous as it was unexpected- her docile little wolf had come to her defense, her razor-sharp teeth imbedded in Greyjoy’s left calf.

“Get that bitch off me!” Greyjoy screamed, trying to kick the wolf away. It only made the small creature growl, shaking her head fiercely and sinking her teeth deeper into his flesh.

Father’s warning rang in her ears. _A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat_.

“Stop!” She cried out. Pushing the pain aside, she struggled back to her feet, one hand pressed against her ribs. Blue eyes met golden orbs of molten fire. The wolf released Greyjoy and sat back on her haunches, long tongue lolling out. The intelligence shining in those golden eyes was obvious. Her little pup had been trying to protect her. _Protect the pack_.

And then she knew.

“Shield”, she said, softly. The wolf tilted her head to the side, listening to the unfamiliar syllables. “Shield, come here.” Sansa knelt down, and the wolf hurried into her embrace. The pain flared up again as she held the pup against her chest. A warm, rough tongue licked against her cheek. Sansa laughed, and held the wolf tighter.

“Stark, step away from that beast.” Greyjoy was no longer quick to call her ‘girl’, but he held a sword in hand and his eyes had a wild look to them. From the corner of her eye she saw Jon approaching, willing as always to step between her and Father’s ward.

She didn’t need him. Not when she had her fierce little shield, to keep her brave.

“Her name is Shield, and you will not lay a finger on her”, she managed to pant the words out through the pain, feeling the effort with every breath. “It might serve you well to remember, Greyjoy, if you go after one wolf- you should be prepared to fight the entire pack.”

The threat hung over the yard, heavy and potent. Sansa Stark let her wolf down, and gave her father’s ward a tight smile. Septa Mordane had once told her a smile was a woman’s shield. Sansa gazed down at the panting pup. For once, it seemed septa Mordane might’ve been wrong. Still, she made sure to smile, sickly sweet, at each and every one of the men around her.

It wouldn’t do to forget her manners entirely.

No one tried to stop her as she made her way slowly out of the yard, Shield trotting loyally at her heels.

And Sansa Stark thought, _I just might have some wolf blood in me after all._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The new gown she had been given in honor of the occasion was truly very pretty, a grey so deep and supple it was almost black, with a trim of light grey fur. Still, it was excruciatingly painful to put it on, let alone walk around in it. A terrible bruise had formed over her ribs overnight, a deep purple stain surrounded by sickly yellow, too tender to touch. She had to move very slowly and stand very straight to keep the pain at bay. She couldn’t breathe too deeply, either. Every deep breath brought with it a new wave of sensation.

Her parents followed her movements with wary eyes as she walked into the yard. Neither was pleased by her actions the previous day. Father was concerned she couldn’t control her wolf, even after ser Rodrik had vowed that Shield was only trying to protect her. Her lady mother had been horrified her gentle daughter had spoken so brashly, and to a ward of her father, no less. Both had been adamant she had to train harder, be better.

Sansa feared if she trained any harder she might not survive. 

The nervous thrum of excitement was tangible around her, the sum of four weeks of hectic preparations. All her siblings were already present, dressed in their finest. All, except for Jon. Someone had even managed to wrangle Arya into a dress.   

Most of the honor guard were still pulling on their armor, and dozens of servants rushed back and forth, wearing anxious faces. Bran was chasing after Arya, who had stolen his gloves, and Sansa watched Rickon as he wobbled after them with glee. Her sister had managed to splatter mud all over her skirts as she ran, her brown hair already escaping its braid. Her lady mother was in deep conversation with Vayon Poole, the steward, seemingly unaware of the mischief her youngest children were up to. Father followed the chase with a keen eye, but did not stop his private conversation with Robb.

 _At least they had the sense to order us to come without the wolves_. Shaggydog, in particular, was quite dangerous with strangers. The black wolf reacted to Rickon’s childish fears with ferociousness. 

Sansa grabbed at her sister when she sprinted by, wincing with pain as the aching muscles of her chest strained under the effort. She snatched Bran’s gloves from Arya’s grasp, ignoring her shout of dismay, and was intent on giving them back when the approaching sound of clattering hooves suddenly filled her ears.

As a trumpet blasted from the walls, a party of some thirty riders trotted into the yard, causing everyone to stop and stare. The men, all armored and armed, seemed to be some sort of guard. They had no standard bearer, but each of them wore a black sable cloak, held by a golden clasp in the shape of a prancing stag.

The stag was the ancient sigil of house Baratheon. The sigil of the king.

She suddenly remembered a direwolf, dead in the snow, a shattered antler in its throat. Shivering, she released Arya from her grasp, to run back to their parents’ side. She followed her sister at a sedate pace, keeping her head high and her breathing shallow. It hurt if she tried to breathe too deeply.

At the head of the party, riding an impressive black destrier, sat a very tall man, whom Sansa suspected could only be the king. He was certainly tall and broad enough, and his piercing blue eyes and black hair easily marked him as a Baratheon. He looked to be of age with her father, with deep frown lines carved into his face and a few days’ worth of grey stubble covering his strong jaw. When he swept his hair back she could see his hairline had already begun to recede.

 _He is dressed so very plainly, though_ , she thought, _all in black_. The only other color to be seen on his person was gold. There were two simple golden clasps, securing his black cloak over his broad shoulders and a golden badge of a stag, secured over his heart. He bore no crown on his brow, only a deep scowl.

There was no sign of the queen and the royal children, and none of the knights he had brought with him wore the white armor of the Kingsguard. _Perhaps I am wrong_ , she wondered, struggling not to fidget when the man’s gaze passed over her, _perhaps he is not…_

“Ned!” the man had a deep voice, and his scowl lifted when his eyes landed on her father, making him look much younger. He jumped off the saddle with surprising grace, especially for a man so large. As he strode towards her father, each step long and confident, she realized just how tall he was, easily over six and a half feet.

“I see age hasn’t slowed you down, eh?” her father’s familiarity convinced her that this must be Robert Baratheon. Lord Stark’s affection for him was obvious in his smile, and in the warm hug he shared with the man. She knew they were childhood friends, had heard countless stories of their youth in the Eyrie. She marveled at the informality between them, at the ease with which they greeted one another after so many years.

“I still remember you on Great Pyke, running ahead as if you wanted to take down the Ironborn single-handedly”, lord Eddard jested.

King Robert scoffed humorlessly at Father’s words, pulling back from the fierce hug with a scowl.

“I cannot abide escorting wheelhouses across the seven kingdoms”, the king admitted, rather bluntly, causing her lady mother to gasp incredulously. Piercing blue eyes turned for the first time to regard the lady of Winterfell. After a moment’s hesitation, the king bowed stiffly in her direction.

“Lady Stark”, the king’s tone became cold, reserved. His eyes scattered over all of them, as if noticing their presence for the first time. He straightened to his full height, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“The caravan rides about an hour or so behind us, I was simply fed up with being on the road. Your land is large, Eddard, and very cold. If you can spare a servant to show my men to their rooms, I will require no more of you.” When her father moved quickly to meet his request, the king put a large hand on his shoulder to halt him. His deep voice was full of urgency as he added, “We need to talk soon, you and I, and in private.”

Stable boys were quickly called forth to take away the horses, and the king’s men were escorted out of the yard. King Robert made as if to follow them, before her father’s voice stopped him.

“Stay a while longer, if you please”, her father urged. “I would introduce you to my family.”

The king frowned at his childhood friend, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. She began to think he was quite strange, very abrupt and seemingly unconcerned even with the most basic civilities. Not at all what she’d imagined a king would be. Both her mother and her father had always claimed Robert Baratheon was a charming man, quick to laugh and easy to talk with. The burden of wearing a crown seemed to have worn him down, making him somber and grave.

“I suppose we might as well”, the king huffed, coming to stand before her.

Sansa was tall for a woman, and beautiful. Even at fourteen she knew that men often look at her with admiration in their eyes. But the king towered over her with ease, and though his gaze was steady and so very blue, it was utterly devoid of any emotion.

Confused and discomfited by his behavior, Sansa dropped into a deep curtsy, despite the pain gripping her side. She was determined to make a good impression, and kept her eyes firmly on the floor as she bid him, “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace”.

She heard her mother stifle a surprised gasp, and raised her eyes to see the king staring down at her with a fierce scowl on his face.

“Child”, there was a note of derision in the king’s voice, as if he found her a simpleton. “I, most certainly, am _not Robert_.”

She blushed deeply, mortified, and wobbled shamefully when she tried to rise up. The man, whoever he was, grabbed her arm to steady her. His large hand covered most of her upper arm, his grip so strong it was almost bruising. He was staring at her as if she’d just insulted him.

She turned to her father in confusion. Lord Stark looked at his firstborn with a fond smile, amused. Her blush deepened into mortification.

_Silly girl, silly little Sansa…_

“My lord”, Father’s voice was full of mirth. His shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. “My daughter meant no offence.”

The man let go of her so suddenly, she almost stumbled. She looked him over, the black hair and blue eyes, the stag badge over his heart, his familiarity with her lord father… _If this is not Robert Baratheon, then, then…_

“My lord, allow me to introduce my firstborn and heir, the lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

The man bowed towards her when Father spoke her name, but his movements were stiff and his scowl remained fixed in place. It was the scowl, she realized. She should’ve known who he was by his scowl.

_Silly little Sansa, stupid…_

“Sansa, this is king Robert’s brother and the lord of Storm’s End and Dragonstone, lord Stannis Baratheon.”

 

                                          


	5. Our Time is Running Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert Baratheon comes to Winterfell. Ned and Robert have a conversation down in the crypt. Stannis meets Jon Snow and has to readjust his perception of Sansa Stark. Ned and Stannis have a late-night conversation, where suspicions are raised and suggestions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally meant to be two separate chapters, but I ended up mashing them into one giant installment. Because of that, it combines two POVs- one belonging to Ned, and one belonging to Stannis. If you need a break between the two- feel free to take one ;) I just figured it will be easier to post the two together in order to move the plot along.
> 
> As you will soon find out, there are several major changes to the timeline coming up. This is where our story is really picking up speed, and I hope you will all enjoy it.
> 
> As always, I'm without a beta, so you're more than welcome to point out any mistakes and misspellings I might have missed.

                                                             

* * *

 

**Eddard**

The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of house Baratheon.

Ned knew many of the riders- ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and Sandor Clegane with his terrible burnt face. The tall boy who rode beside him could only be the crown prince, and the stunted little man behind them was surely the imp, Tyrion Lannister.

Yet the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, seemed almost a stranger to Ned… until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed him in a bone-crunching hug. “Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours!” The king looked him over, top to bottom, and laughed. “You have not changed at all.”

Would that Ned could have said the same. Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the young lord of Storm’s End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Over six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men. And when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his house, he became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.

Now it was perfume that clung to the king like perfume, and he had gained a girth to match his height; at least eight stone, by Ned’s estimate. A beard, as coarse and black as iron wire covered his jaw to hide his double chin and the sag of the royal jowls, but nothing could hide his large stomach or the dark circles under his eyes.

Yet Robert was Ned’s king now, and not just a friend, so he knelt in the snow and said only, “Your Grace, Winterfell is yours.”

The crowd gathered in the yard followed his lead, and from the corner of his eye Ned saw the king’s brother bending down. The lord of Storm’s End had left the yard to take care of his party, but had returned to be present for the king's arrival. He had not uttered a single word since Sansa had mistaken him for Robert. His scowl had not lifted either.

Stannis and Robert were never much alike, in character or appearances, but age had set them apart further yet. Stannis had grown up in Robert’s shadow. Tall, but not as tall as his brother. Broad and strong, but less so than Robert. Everything Stannis had ever set out to do, his older brother had done first, and better. _But to look at them now…_

Still, Robert was Stannis’ king as much as he was his brother. So the lord of Storm’s End knelt along, in the fresh snow, like everyone else. His piercing blue eyes stared into the air, unseeing.

“Get up, you old fool”, Robert ordered with an outreached arm. The king pulled his childhood friend to his feet, and the two shared another warm embrace. When they parted, the king turned to his younger brother.

“Stannis! I see your ass didn’t freeze over after all!”

Stannis bowed his head in deference, but did not speak. Ned stifled a snort of laughter.

By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Robert’s queen, Cersei Lannister, entered on foot with her younger children. The wheelhouse in which they had ridden, a huge double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal pulled by forty heavy draft horses, was too wide to pass through the castle gate. _That monstrosity must travel at a snail’s pace_ , Ned realized, with a shred of sympathy for his ill-tempered friend. Stannis Baratheon was not one for idleness. Traveling north in such a manner must have been excruciating for such a man. Ned wondered that he had taken the trouble to come at all.

_Perhaps Robert forced him_ , he mused. _Or perhaps what he means to discuss with me is graver than I thought._

Ned knelt in the snow a second time to kiss the queen’s ring, while Robert embraced Catelyn like a long-lost sister. The children were brought forward, introduced, and approved by both sides. Sansa curtsied with perfect grace, and addressed each member of the royal family by their proper name and title, flawless despite her earlier blunder and the terrible bruising to her ribs.

No sooner were the formalities of greeting completed, than the king said to his host, “Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects.”

Ned loved him for that. For remembering her still after all these years. He called for a lantern. No other words were needed. The queen began to protest. They’d been riding since dawn, everyone was tired and cold, they ought to refresh themselves first. The dead would wait. Robert gave her a look. Her twin brother took her quietly by the arm, and she said no more.

They went down to the crypt together, Ned and this king he scarcely recognized. The winding stone steps were narrow. Ned went first with the lantern. “I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell”, Robert complained as they descended. “In the south, the way they talk about my seven kingdoms, a man forgets your part is as big as the other six combined.”

“I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?”

Robert snorted, loudly. “Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I’ve never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?”

“Likely they were too shy to come out”, Ned jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. “Kings have been a rare sight in the north these past eighty years.”

Robert’s booming laughter hadn’t changed, at least. “More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!” the king put one hand on the wall to steady himself as they descended.

“Late summer snows are common enough”, Ned said. “I hope they did not trouble you. They are usually mild.”

“The Others take you mild snows”, Robert swore. “What will this place be like in winter? I shudder to think.”

“The winters are hard”, Ned admitted. “But the Starks will endure. We always have.”

His thoughts strayed to Sansa. His tall, slender daughter, with her auburn hair and blue eyes, who looked nothing like a Stark. How she struggled, his gentle child, under the weight of his expectations. But she was strong, too; stronger than she believed. She would make a fine ruler, when her time came. House Stark would be safe in her hands.

“You need to come south”, Robert told him. “You need a taste of summer before it flees. In Highgarden there are fields of golden roses that stretch away as far as the eye can see. The fruits are so ripe they explode in your mouth—melons, peaches, fireplums, you've never tasted such sweetness. You'll see, I brought you some. Even at Storm's End, with that good wind off the bay, the days are so hot you can barely move. And you ought to see the towns, Ned! Flowers everywhere, the markets bursting with food, the summerwines so cheap and so good that you get drunk just breathing the air. Everyone is fat and drunk and rich.” He laughed and slapped his own ample stomach.

“And the girls, Ned!” he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. “I swear, women lose all modesty in the heat. They swim naked in the river, right beneath the castle. Even in the streets, it's too damn hot for wool or fur, so they go around in these short gowns, silk if they have the silver and cotton if not, but it's all the same when they start sweating and the cloth sticks to their skin, they might as well be naked”, the king laughed happily.

Robert Baratheon had always been a man of huge appetites, a man who knew how to take his pleasures. Yet Ned couldn’t help but notice how those pleasures had taken their toll on the king. Robert was breathing heavily by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, his face red in the lantern light as they stepped out into the darkness of the crypt.

"Your Grace," Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchers that contained their mortal remains.

"She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon.”

He led the way between the pillars and Robert followed wordlessly, shivering in the subterranean chill. It was forever cold down here. Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the dead of house Stark.

The lords of Winterfell watched them pass. Their likenesses were carved into the stones that sealed their tombs. In long rows they sat, blind eyes staring out into eternal darkness, while great stone direwolves curled round their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed them by.

The dead did not willingly suffer the living.

By ancient custom, an iron longsword had been laid across the lap of each who had been lord of Winterfell in their lifetime, to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts. The oldest had long ago rusted away to nothing, leaving only a few red stains where the metal had rested on stone. Ned wondered if that meant those ghosts were free to roam the castle now. He hoped not. The first lords of Winterfell had been men and women as hard as the land they ruled. In the centuries before the direwolf married the dragon, they had sworn allegiance to no man, styling themselves the Kings in the North.

Ned stopped at last and lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond that point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for their dead. Waiting for him, for Sansa. Ned did not like to dwell on that. "Here", he told his king.

Robert nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head.

There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason who had made his likeness had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In two smaller sepulchers on either side were his children.

Brandon had been twenty when he died, strangled by order of the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, only a few short days before he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His father had been forced to watch him die. Brandon had been the true heir, the eldest, born to rule.

Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more.

"She was more beautiful than that", the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he might will her back to life. Finally he rose, the rise made awkward by his weight. "Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?" His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. “She deserved more than darkness…”

"She was a Stark of Winterfell", Ned said quietly. "This is her place."

"She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean."

Robert had loved Lyanna, but he had not known her very well.

"I was with her when she died", Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. _Promise me_ , she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. _Promise me, Ned_. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes.

Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can", he said. "Lyanna was… fond of flowers."

Sansa was fond of flowers as well. When she had been very young, his daughter would weave crowns of wild flowers and place them on his head, solemnly declaring he was her darling champion. At what age did she outgrow that habit? _Eight, maybe_ , he reckoned.

The king touched Lyanna’s cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it were living flesh. “I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her.”

“You did”, Ned reminded him.

“Only once”, Robert said, bitterly.

They had come together at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, Robert with his warhammer and his great antlered helm, the Targaryen prince armored all in black. On his breastplate was the three-headed dragon of his house, wrought all in rubies that flashed like fire in the sunlight. The waters of the Trident ran red around the hooves of their destriers as they circled and clashed, again and again, until at last a crushing blow from Robert's hammer stove in the dragon and the chest beneath it. When Ned had finally come on the scene, Rhaegar lay dead in the stream, while men of both armies scrabbled in the swirling waters for rubies knocked free of his armor.

“In my dreams, I kill him every night”, Robert admitted. “A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.”

There was nothing Ned could say to that. After a quiet pause, he said, “We should return, your Grace. Your wife will be waiting.”

When the king did not answer, he added, "Tell me about Jon."

Robert shook his head. "I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on my son's name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A fortnight later he was dead. The sickness was like a fire in his gut. It burned right through him." He paused beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark. "I loved that old man."

"We both did." Ned paused a moment. "Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her grief?"

Robert's mouth gave a bitter twist. "Not well, in truth", he admitted. "I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie, against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock, or even with Stannis, though that would have been very cruel of me. But Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave the boy to be raised by women?"

Ned would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to lord Tywin, but he left his doubts unspoken. Some old wounds never truly healed, and bled again at the slightest word. "The wife has lost the husband", he said, carefully. "Perhaps the mother feared to lose the son. The boy is very young."

"Six, and sickly, and lord of the Eyrie, gods have mercy", the king swore. "Lord Tywin had never taken a ward before. Lysa ought to have been honored. The Lannisters are a great and noble house. She refused to even hear of it. Then she left in the dead of night, without so much as a by-your-leave. Cersei was furious." He sighed deeply. "The boy is my namesake, did you know that? Robert Arryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?"

"I will take him as ward, if you wish", Ned said. "Lysa should consent to that. She and Catelyn were close as girls, and she would be welcome here as well."

"A generous offer, my friend", the king said, "but too late. Lord Tywin has already given his consent. Fostering the boy elsewhere would be a grievous affront to him."

"I have more concern for my nephew's welfare than I do for Lannister pride”, Ned declared.

"That is because you do not sleep with a Lannister", Robert laughed. The sound rattled among the tombs and bounced from the vaulted ceiling. The king’s smile was a flash of white teeth in the thicket of his huge black beard. "Ah, Ned", he sighed, "you are still too serious." He put a massive arm around Ned's shoulders. "I had planned to wait a few days to speak to you, but I see now there's no need for it. Come, walk with me."

They started back down between the pillars. Blind stone eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. The king kept his arm around Ned's shoulder. "You must have wondered why I finally came north to Winterfell, after so long."

Ned had his suspicions, but he did not give them voice. "For the joy of my company, surely", he said lightly. "And there is the Wall. You need to see it, your Grace, to walk along its battlements and talk to those who man it. The Night's Watch is a shadow of what it once was. Benjen says…"

"No doubt I will hear all your brother has to say soon enough", Robert said. "The Wall has stood for what, eight thousand years? It can keep a few days more. I have more pressing concerns. These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn. He served as lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace."

"His son…" Ned began.

"His son will succeed to the Eyrie and all its incomes", Robert said brusquely. "No more."

This took Ned by surprise. He stopped, startled, and turned to look at his king. The words came unbidden. "The Arryns have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain."

"Perhaps when he comes of age, the honor can be restored to him", Robert said. "I have this year to think of, and next. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, Ned. Nor, for that matter, is a woman." The look the king leveled at him was all too easy to read.

"In peace, the title is only an honor. Let the boy keep it. For his father's sake if not his own. Surely you owe Jon that much for his service."

He said nothing of Sansa.

The king was not pleased. He took his arm from around Ned's shoulders. "Jon's service was the duty he owed his liege. I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that. But the son is not the father. A mere boy cannot hold the east." Then his tone softened. "Enough of this. There is a more important office to discuss, and I would not argue with you." Robert grasped Ned by the elbow. "I have need of you, Ned."

"I am yours to command, Your Grace. Always." Those were words he had to say, and so he said them.

Robert scarcely seemed to hear him. "Those years we spent in the Eyrie… gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again, Ned. I want you down in King's Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are of no damn use to anybody." Robert looked off into the darkness, for a moment as melancholy as a Stark. "I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people... there is no end to them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They all want something, money or land or justice. The lies they tell… and my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Half of them don't dare tell me the truth, and the other half can't find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but…”

"You have your brother; if nothing else, you can trust Stannis to tell you the truth", Ned spoke softly.

Robert was angered, nonetheless. “Yes, my grim brother will tell me the truth if I asked, but then I might have to order ser Ilyn to remove his tongue. Do you know he hasn’t smiled in years? I think he doesn’t remember how, the serious cunt…” the king sighed and Ned kept his silence. The breach between the Baratheon brothers was too wide and too deep for him to bridge.

“I never loved my brothers. A sad thing for a man to admit, but there it is all the same. You, Ned, were the brother I chose. And I will have you by my side once more, my old friend.” The king smiled, but Ned felt only dread.

“Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King.”

Ned dropped to one knee. The offer did not surprise him; what other reason could Robert have for coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the seven kingdoms. He spoke with the king's voice, commanded the king's armies, drafted the king's laws. At times he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense the king's justice, when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.

He could think of nothing he would’ve liked less.

"Your Grace", he said carefully, respectfully. "I am not worthy of the honor."

Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. "If I wanted to honor you, I'd let you retire. I am planning to make you run my kingdom and fight my wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave." He slapped his gut and grinned. "You know the saying, about the king and his hand?"

Ned knew the saying. "What the king dreams", he said, "the hand builds."

"I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the hand takes the shit." He threw back his head and roared his laughter. The echoes rang through the darkness, and all around them the dead of Winterfell seemed to watch with cold and disapproving eyes.

Finally, the laughter dwindled and stopped. Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised. "Damn it, Ned", the king complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile."

"They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death", Ned said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor."

"Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again", the king promised. "You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."

This offer did surprise him. "Sansa is my heir."

Robert waved an impatient hand. "What of it? You have sons to replace her. Your daughter is very beautiful, she’ll make my son a fine queen." The king smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you."

Ned stood up, but hesitated before he spoke. To refuse the king outright was dangerous, but the thought of a betrothal between his daughter and the crown-prince was distasteful. He had raised Sansa to be more than a simpering southorn Lady, raised her as his father had raised Lyanna…

_Sansa belongs in the North, as do I._

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, your Grace”, Ned finally said, “but I will not rob my daughter of her birthright."

“Her birthright?” the king cried, his face turning red with anger. “I mean to give her the seven kingdoms!”

“My daughter has been raised to rule the north, not to be an ornament on her husband’s arm.”

“Damn you, and damn this frozen land of yours”, Robert’s anger had awoken, ugly and rash. “You mean to deny your king?” he demanded.

“Perhaps an alternative, your Grace?” Ned offered, thinking quickly. “You have a daughter, I have a son. Marry your Myrcella to my Robb.”

“Myrcella is nine. Her mother would kill me if I sent her daughter alone to the northern savages”, Robert huffed, but seemed to calm down as he mulled over the matter. “They are both too young to marry… but an engagement could be announced. You could bring Robb south with you, perhaps, let them have a chance to know each other…” The king’s smile was sly, satisfied.

“May I have some time to consider?” Ned tried to delay. “I must tell my wife…”

"Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must." The king reached out, clasped Ned by the shoulder, and pulled him roughly for a crushing hug. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men."

For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. Sansa was too young, still in need of guidance. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathing in deep the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. Father, Brandon, Lyanna, and so many, many more. They were all listening, he knew.

And winter was coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Stannis**

Finding a private moment to speak with Eddard proved impossible. Robert was so excited to have his childhood friend back, he hardly let the man out of his sight. And when he did, lord Stark had to tend to his castle and its occupants. Winterfell seemed overrun with so many guests sleeping under its roof. Whenever Stannis saw the man, the lord of Winterfell did not seem to share the king’s high spirits, walking around with the expression of someone who has foreseen his own death.

Stannis remembered the feeling.

The ancestral seat of power of house Stark was impressive to behold, and fascinating to explore. He was particularly intrigued by the system of pipes which ran through the castle’s walls, pumping water from the hot springs upon which the castle had been built. It made him think of human arteries, pumping blood and life into a man’s body. The glass gardens were another aspect of northern life which was completely foreign to him. He spent much of his time sketching them, thinking that Shireen would enjoy the drawings. His only daughter was curious by nature, always eager to learn more of the world. He tried to see and learn new things for her sake, so he could have many new stories for her when they met.

He began regretting coming north at all, when he could’ve gone to Dragonstone. Robert would’ve complained loudly, as he always did, but the king did not want for amusements here in Winterfell, and Stannis’ absence would have gone mostly unnoticed. He had hardly been the best of fathers, distracted as he always was with matters of state. Too many times he had chosen his duty to the realm and to his brother over his duty to his only child. He had not been to visit his girl in a very long time, and Cressen’s letters were full of the old man’s fears. Stannis knew the maester well enough to understand what the old man would not write outright. It began to feel like a great waste, to give up what little time his daughter had left in the world for the sake of a dead man and a suspicion.

He was running out of time.

His thoughts were dark and uncharitable when he discovered the large window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep. It had a wide sill, and a view of the whole training yard. He had been down to the yard once, upon ser Rodrik’s invitation, but had avoided it ever since. Too many eager young men were currently in Winterfell, and too many of those had begged for the rare chance to hit at the king’s brother. He had beaten four men black-and-blue, two Stark men and two Lannister, before quitting the yard with barely a nod in ser Rodrik’s direction. He was four and thirty, too old to pretend he cared much about his perceived prowess with a sword.

Stannis put one knee on the sill and rested his forearm against the glass, leaning forward to better see the yard. It seemed ser Rodrik had been given the dubious honor of overlooking the children’s drilling, and had taken every possible precaution.

One of Stark’s younger boys, Rickon or Brandon, was so heavily padded he looked as though he had belted on a featherbed. Prince Tommen, who was plump to begin with, seemed positively round. The two were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of Winterfell’s master-at-arms. A dozen or so spectators were calling out encouragements, the clear voice of a girl ringing loudest among them. He quickly found the two Stark girls, the younger one, with the brown hair and the long face, was the one to shout and cheer so loudly. The heir, the redhead, stood quiet and reserved with the Greyjoy youth at her side, his black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken of his house. The sight made Stannis grind his teeth. The son resembled the father far too much for his liking.

A soft rustle to his right made him spin around quickly. The sight which greeted him was one he had never thought to see.

He had heard about the direwolves, of course. Each of the Stark children had been given one, to raise as a normal child might raise a bloodhound. According to his men, the beasts were barely a month old, and already the size of regular wolves. Stannis had not seen any of them, until now.

The wolf was an albino, its fur completely white and its eyes blood red. His men had exaggerated its size, as Stannis had suspected, but it was almost as tall as the boy’s thighs. It stared at him steadily, and there was an intelligence in those red eyes Stannis thought no animal should ever possess.

The boy standing next to the wolf was as ordinary as dirt. More boy than man, and shorter than Joffrey, his long face and grey eyes nonetheless marked him as a Stark. Even without the pup at his side, Stannis would have had no trouble guessing the boy’s identity.

“You are Eddard’s bastard, aren’t you?”

The boy pressed his lips together and said nothing. At his side, the wolf silently bared his teeth.

Stannis was unimpressed.

“You should have better control of your wolf”, he advised in a clipped tone. The boy’s eyes widened, and the pup backed away uncertainly.

“If I wasn’t here, Ghost would tear out your throat”, the boy said.

Stannis scoffed, looking the wolf up and down. “Perhaps when it’s bigger; this one here is still a pup. There’s no need to look so offended”, he added in a dismissive tone when he saw the frown on the youth’s somber face. “You should never embellish the truth, boy. Your wolf is still too small, and you will always be a bastard.”

“My name is Jon Snow. Lord Stark is my father”, the boy admitted stiffly.

“I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers.”

Stannis recalled his introduction to Eddard’s firstborn, and turned to seek her face in the yard. She stood out easily enough, in a crowd of men. She was slender and tall, dressed in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. But even though she had a serious cast to her fair features, she was far more Tully than Stark. Her auburn hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones were all her mother’s. There was very little of lord Eddard in Sansa Stark.

Her character, from what little he had seen of it, also seemed more Catelyn than Eddard. She was a courteous little thing, polite and proper. He had seen dozens like her before, at court, cheerfully repeating the false pleasantries they’d learnt at their mother’s skirts.

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” he inquired of the bastard, still gazing down at the boy’s half-sister. She seemed to follow her younger brother’s moves very keenly, her gaze concerned.

The boy came up to stand next to him. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes”, he said dryly. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.”

Stannis said nothing, but thought that at least the bastard seemed to have some spine. His sister’s horrified expression when the girl had realized her blunder was clear in Stannis’ memory. She had been petrified with fear.

They spent several minutes in companionable silence. The boys down at the yard had been at it for a while now, and both combatants were staggering with exhaustion.

“You are the king’s brother”, the boy at his side broke the silence. A statement, not a question. Stannis tried very hard not to grind his teeth.

“Yes”, he said, failing to keep the derision out of his voice. “For all my titles and deeds, I suppose I am first and foremost Robert’s brother.”

“He is the king”, the boy seemed confused, but Stannis hardly cared. He was not about to explain a life long struggle to a boy of four and ten.

“You don’t look very much alike”, the bastard added, uncertainly. Stannis was ashamed of how quickly the statement cooled his ire. “But then, prince Joffrey looks nothing at all like his father.”

The statement hit a raw nerve, one he was not willing to examine too closely just yet. Instead, his eyes found his nephew, standing in the back under the shade of the high stone wall. He was surrounded by men Stannis only half-recognized, most of them young squires in Lannister livery. The absence of Baratheon men was to be expected. Stannis was the lord of Storm’s End, and Joffrey’s dislike of his uncle was entirely mutual. Stannis had not made the effort to place any stormlanders in the prince’s company.

Not for the first time, the sight of Joffrey’s chosen coat-of-arms made Stannis grind his teeth. An ornate shield was embroidered on the prince’s padded surcoat. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side the crowned stag of the royal house, on the other the lion of Lannister. The conceited pride of Cersei Lannister knew no bounds, and she had passed it on down to her insufferable son. Much like Sansa Stark, Joffrey Baratheon was too much his mother’s child.

There was a shout from the courtyard below. His young nephew was rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back. The Stark boy was standing over him with upraised wooden sword, ready to whack him again once he regained his feet. The men began to laugh. At Stannis’ side, the bastard smirked.

“Enough!” ser Rodrik called out. The man was built like a stout keg, and had the most ridiculous white cheek whiskers Stannis had ever seen. His face was red with the effort of making himself heard over the uproar in the yard. He offered the young prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. “Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor.” He looked around the yard. “Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?”

Robb was Eddard’s second trueborn child, and of age with the crown prince. The boy looked large for his age, widening at the shoulders where Joffrey was still slim as a maiden, but the prince was taller. Already sweaty from a previous bout, Robb Stark moved forward eagerly. “Gladly.”

Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to ser Rodrik’s summons. His hair shone like spun gold, and he looked bored. The boy had the ability to appear bored and displeased with everything. Stannis had often felt the urge to slap the expression off the boy’s pretty face.

“This is a game for children, ser Rodrik”, the prince complained.

The Greyjoy youth gave a sudden bark of laughter. “You are children”, he said derisively. Ned’s heir shot a dark look at her father’s ward, but Greyjoy only smiled wider.

“Robb may be a child”, Joffrey said. “I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a wooden play sword.”

“You got more swats than you gave, Joffrey”, Robb Stark said. “Are you afraid?”

“Robb.”

Sansa Stark’s voice was surprisingly harsh when she was issuing a warning rather than paying a compliment. Her blue eyes were fixed at her younger brother, and she stared him down ‘til the boy grudgingly apologized to the prince.

“It’s alright, Robb”, the prince drawled, “you’re quite right- I’m absolutely terrified of a boy who hides behind his sister’s skirts. Perhaps I should be fighting the lady Sansa, or even lady Arya, instead?” Some of the Lannister men laughed.

Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. “What are you suggesting?” he asked the prince.

“Live steel.”

“Done”, Robb Stark shot back. “You’ll be sorry!”

“I’ve grown tired of you, little Stark”, Joffrey’s tone was dripping with venom. Stannis began to think he should have gone down to the yard, to keep his nephew in line. “I’ve heard so much of your wild northern women, who fight like men. I think your older sister will be a far greater challenge than _you_.”

It was the younger sister, Arya, who stood with her fists clenched, seemingly anxious for a fight. Sansa Stark stood very straight, and remained very silent.

“Does your sister actually fight?” Stannis asked. She seemed far too delicate to wield a blade properly.

“She can fight as well as anyone with a wooden sword”, her half-brother replied proudly, a hint of warmth in his voice. _There is affection between the bastard and the trueborn,_ Stannis noted, surprised. _How unusual._ “But the weight of a steel sword is too great for her.”

“Live steel is too dangerous”, the master-at-arms declared, his eyes sweeping over his liege’s slender heir. Stannis admired her stony expression, but suspected it simply hid her terror. “I will permit the lady Sansa to fight the prince, but only with wooden training swords.”

Joffrey said nothing, but Sandor Clegane, with his long black hair and his terrible burn scars, pushed forward in front of the prince. “This is your prince”, he growled at ser Rodrik. “Who are you to tell him he may not have a steel blade in his hand, ser?”

“Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it.”

“So you are training women here, after all”, the burnt man scoffed. He was muscled like a bull, and Stannis knew how deadly he was with a blade. Clegane was no knight, but in battle such a thing hardly mattered.

“I am training _knights_ ”, ser Rodrik said pointedly. “They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of age.”

The burnt man turned to look at the young lady. “How old are you, girl?”

Sansa’s eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously as she stared at Clegane’s terrible scars. Her expression was made of stone, unflinching. It was the first true hint of Eddard Stark he had ever seen in his daughter.

“I am the lady Sansa of house Stark”, she replied, calm and collected. “You will refer to me by my title, ser.”

Clegane scoffed. “I am no ser, little lady. I’ve asked you how old you are.”

“Fourteen”, she said.

“I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a wooden sword.”

Sansa’s younger brother bristled with anger. Robb’s wounded pride was on display for all to see, where his sister remained unmoved. If it was a mask she wore for the benefit of their audience, she wore it well.

The Stark boy turned to ser Rodrik. “Let me do it”, he pleaded. “I can beat him.”

“Beat him with a wooden sword, then”, ser Rodrik said.

Joffrey shrugged. “Come and see me when you’re older, Stark. If you’re not too old.” There was laughter from the Lannister men.

Robb’s curses rang through the yard. The young boy had an impressive vocabulary for one so young. His sister moved forward to seize his arm, preventing him from approaching the prince. Ser Rodrik tugged on his whiskers in dismay.

Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. “Come, Tommen”, he said. “The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics.”

His words earned more laughter from the Lannisters, and more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik’s face was beet-red with fury under the white of his whiskers. Greyjoy came forward to help the girl restrain her brother in his place until the princes and their party were safely away.

At his side, the bastard stirred. “Forgive me, my lord”, he said with a small bow. “But the show is done, and I should join my siblings.” He sprinted away, his white wolf trotting behind him, and disappeared from sight. A few moments later he reappeared down in the yard, rushing to his siblings, who had gathered together. Five children stood huddled together, four trueborn and the bastard, voices too soft for Stannis to hear. The white wolf circled anxiously at their feet. 

Ser Rodrik soon enough had his yard back under control. He dismissed the three younger children, but kept Eddard’s firstborn and the bastard to train a while longer.

Stannis, who had been about to depart, decided to stay and watch. 

The bastard’s assessment of his half-sister’s abilities had been mostly accurate. The girl was not masterful, but she was clever. Her technique was good and her responses sharp, and what she lacked in strength she made up for in speed and flexibility. She sought to avoid early contact with her foes, preferring to wear them down ‘til they were slow before she attempted to strike at them. It was a good strategy for one so slender, though one that could never be applied successfully in war.

The bastard had also spoken true when he confessed her inability to wield a steel blade. As soon as ser Rodrik had her holding one, the added weight slowed down her movements and made her clumsy. He watched as her confidence failed, as she fell back with each blow, each time slower, more hesitant.

Stannis Baratheon had commanded forces in battle since he was eight and ten. He knew how to assess his opponents, how to evaluate their weaknesses. Ser Rodrik was a fine knight, and a good teacher, but he did not have the knowledge to advance the Stark girl further. The old man knew only how to be a knight, to put on his armor and wield a longsword in battle. The girl would never be strong enough to wield a longsword, Stannis knew, and putting on plate and mail would only restrict her movements further. Sansa Stark, slender and lithe, made him think of the water dancers he had seen so many years ago at Braavos, fighting above the Moon Pool near the Sealord’s Palace. The finest of them could fight and kill upon the pool's surface without disturbing the water.

He sighed, pushing himself away from the windowpane.

The inevitable comparison between Sansa Stark and his own little girl was a bitter one. The girl down in the yard would never be as physically strong as a man, but she could grow up to be a proper heir to the north. He had seen it in her today. As for Shireen… His clever girl would not outlast him, would never grow old enough to take his seat. In a bitter moment of reflection, Stannis begrudged Eddard his six healthy children.

Like Proudwing, his poor, sickly, ugly, _beautiful_ daughter would never soar high.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Stark’s solar was a large, round room; the floor was covered by thick rugs, and the walls were warm to the touch. Eddard’s first action once they were locked inside was to pull back the heavy tapestries and throw open the high narrow windows one by one, letting the night air into the chamber.

The wind swirled around him as he stood facing the dark, looking so much older than Stannis remembered. _When did we become old men?_ He wondered, thinking of his own greying beard, his receding hairline.

“I will refuse him”, Eddard said, turning back to face him. His eyes seemed haunted, his voice thick with doubt.

Stannis sighed.

“You cannot”, his voice was tired. He was tired. “Eddard, you must not.”

“My duties are here in the north. I have no wish to be Robert’s hand.”

_No one with an ounce of sense would wish to be Robert’s hand_ , Stannis longed to say. The man was a drunken fool and had spent the past fifteen years accumulating enormous debts to sustain his lavish lifestyle. But Eddard knew nothing of those things, those dirty secrets Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister had taken such pains to conceal. Even Robert himself wasn’t fully aware how much he owed the old lion of Casterly.

“He will not understand that. He is a king now, and kings are not like other men. If you refuse to serve him, he will wonder why, and sooner or later he will begin to suspect that you oppose him. Can't you see the danger that would put you and your family in?”

Eddard shook his head, refusing to believe. The ever loyal Ned Stark, always willing to turn a blind eye to Robert’s many failings. Stannis clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his temper in check. For a moment, he was tempted to confess everything, reveal the depths to which Robert had sunk before his childhood friend. _Robert’s chosen brother_.

All he said was, “You knew the man. This king is a stranger to you. Pride is everything to him. Robert came all this way to see _you_ , to bring _you_ these great honors. It would be unwise to throw them back in his face.”

“Honors?” Eddard laughed bitterly.

“In his eyes, yes”, Stannis replied.

“And in yours?” the lord of Winterfell wondered, his tone pensive.

“And in mine”, Stannis agreed, grinding his teeth.

It was an honor, in truth; and one that, by right, should have gone to him. But there was no love lost between him and Robert, only the duty a younger brother owed his liege. Robert would never have offered him such a position of power, and Stannis would have made a poor hand. Robert never listened to him, not as he listened to the man who now stood before him, a miserable expression on his long face. Eddard Stark had the power to change Robert’s mind, to set him on a better path and possibly save the realm from disaster. For that alone, Stannis was willing to overlook his wounded pride and convince the stubborn man to accept.

But it was a bitter thing, to swallow one’s pride. Every muscle in his body was tense with the effort. “Robert means to bestow you with the highest honor he can think of. Show some sense, man.”

His words brought a bitter twist to Eddard’s mouth.

“I never asked for this cup to pass to me”, he said, sounding so very, very tired.

He had been nineteen once, and Eddard had been twenty, and they had been so certain that they had all the time in the world. Time to forget the horrors of war, time to rebuild their lives. _When did we grow so old?_

“Perhaps you never asked for it”, Stannis said, trying to keep his tone kind. It came out brusque, all the same. “But Jon Arryn is dead, and the cup has passed, and you must drink from it, like it or not.”

Eddard turned away from him, back to the night. He stood staring out into the darkness, seemingly impervious to the cold, watching the sentries posted outside on the wall.

Perhaps if he were a different man, one capable of deceit in the name of kindness, he could have found it within himself to spare his friend these next words. But Stannis Baratheon was a hard man, and he forced the words out of his mouth and into the cold air.

“I suspect Jon Arryn did not die of natural causes.”

The words hung heavy in the room. The only visible sign they’d been heard was in the tightening of Eddard’s shoulders. He seemed smaller now, more vulnerable. Perhaps if he were a kinder man, Stannis could have found it within himself to feel sorry for his friend. Jon Arryn had been a second father to him, as he had been to Robert.

Without turning, his voice barely above a whisper, the lord of Winterfell asked, “What proof do you have?”

“None”, Stannis admitted bitterly. “Or I would’ve gone to Robert.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“Because you have more sense than my brother, and, I dare hope, more faith in my good intentions.” His words made the lord of Winterfell turn around to face him with a look of exasperation.

“You and Robert, I swear… For all your differences, in the end I think it is your similarities that have made you resent each other.”

There was an uncomfortable truth buried in that statement, but it was too late for him and his brother to make amends. Stannis had spent his entire life serving his older brother, and it had earned him neither Robert’s love nor his respect.

“Lord Arryn was troubled when last I saw him”, Stannis said, preferring to forge ahead rather than dwell on an unpleasant past. “Troubled, yes, but not weak. The old man was strong like an ox.”

“All men die”, Eddard was quick to dismiss his words, and Stannis ground his teeth in frustration. “Robert claims the disease burnt through him very quickly.”

“Too quickly”, Stannis pointed out. “He was healthy enough in the morning, sick as a dog by nightfall and dead before dawn. What known illness can cause such a thing? Think, Ned!”

The first trace of doubt appeared in lord Stark’s grey eyes.

“You think he was poisoned.”

Stannis nodded.

“Who would dare poison the hand of the king?”

Stannis scoffed, wondering how it was that Eddard had managed to remain so naïve after the horrors he had seen. Or perhaps it was Stannis, who had become too jaded and saw assassins in every shadow. King’s Landing was a snake pit, after all; no one could live long in the capitol without being tainted by its filth.

“We were never close, lord Arryn and I. He came to me, only a week before his death, asking what I knew of Robert’s bastard children. I told him what I knew of Edric Storm, the one Robert sired on Delena Florent, Selyse’s cousin…”

“I never wrote to you, after her death.”

Stannis frowned. “Whatever for?”

“She was your wife, she died giving birth to your only daughter. I should’ve sent my condolences.”

“None were necessary, there was no love lost between us. I did not mourn her.”

Eddard looked at him incredulously, but Stannis had never been one for false pleasantries.

Selyse had been a cold woman, and unattractive. Jon Arryn had arranged their marriage, and for that Stannis could never forgive the old man. They had suffered through several miscarriages together, and each time she bled out, a part of her soul died along with her unborn child. Stannis would have been content to stop, to live separately from his wife and focus on his other duties, but Selyse had insisted on trying again and again. Even their marriage bed had been a cold place, and Stannis would only come to it when the maester insisted it was a good time for his wife to conceive. She had died giving birth to Shireen; a small, fragile little girl. His wife had been unhappy when she died, knowing she had failed to deliver him a son.

He had been shamefully relieved by her death. Since then, no amount of shouting from Robert could convince him to wed a second time. Not while his daughter was still alive. Not while he had Renly. _Ah, Renly_ … Stannis shied away from thoughts of his younger brother.

“Your daughter, is she…?” Eddard’s voice trailed off into uncertainty. Hardly anyone dared to mention Stannis Baratheon’s girl, as if they feared they might somehow catch her terrible disease by speaking of it.

“She lives on Dragonstone, with a maester. I trust my castellan there to keep her comfortable. They’ve tried to contain the greyscale, but it is progressing steadily. Last I heard, she has lost all sensation in her legs.”

“I am sorry, Stannis, truly.” Eddard seemed genuine in his sorrow, so Stannis struggled not to feel affronted. Too often, he found, sorrow and pity were one and the same.

“I did not come here to discuss my daughter”, he said gruffly. “I came to convince you that you must go south. The lions are surrounding your friend, and their claws are buried deep in his flesh. If you won’t come to investigate the death of the man who raised you, at least come down and try to save the man you call brother.”

Silence fell, and when he finally spoke, Eddard’s voice was tired and full of melancholy. Moisture glittered faintly in the corners of his eyes. Stannis looked away.

“My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again.”

Stannis had nothing to say to that.

They remained silent for a long time, until a knock came at the door, loud and unexpected. Eddard turned towards the sound, frowning.

“What is it?” he called out.

The guard’s voice came through the door. “My lord, lady Stark has requested your immediate presence.”

Eddard strode to the door, unlocked it and pulled hard on the heavy wood. The door swung open, revealing a startled guard in the corridor.

“You told her I had left orders not to be disturbed?”

“Yes, my lord. She insists.”

“Is it the children?” There was a hint of fear in Eddard’s voice.

“I don’t think so, my lord. Maester Luwin is with her. There’s been a message from the Eyrie, from lady Arryn.”

The look which passed between the lord of Winterfell and the lord of Storm’s End was rife with meaning.

“You should go to your wife”, Stannis urged. “And pray your guard is trustworthy and knows not to repeat such news to anyone else.” The glare he leveled at the guard should have made the man flinch, but these northern folks were not easily intimidated. The guard simply straightened his spine and nodded solemnly to signal his understanding.

_Good man_ , Stannis grudgingly admitted. He wished he had more men of such mettle in his service.

The lord of Storm’s End rose, looking down at his friend. Eddard Stark was of average height at best, and Stannis had always towered over him. They nodded at each other solemnly, both already occupied with private thoughts, but before they could leave the room Stannis recalled something.

“If I might make a suggestion, regarding your daughter…”

Eddard turned to look at him with a thunderous expression. “No, Stannis”, the vehemence in his voice took the taller man by surprise. “I have listened to everything you’ve told me and I will give the matter proper consideration. But I will _not_ allow my firstborn daughter, _the heir to the north_ , to marry Joffrey Baratheon. That boy is…”

“Marriage? To that vicious imbecile?!” He couldn’t help the harsh laughter which escaped his throat. “Why would I suggest such a thing?”

“He is your nephew, and the crown prince”, Eddard said hesitantly. The sight of Stannis Baratheon laughing must have been truly shocking to the man, his mouth was almost gaping.

“And you are my friend.” The warmth in his voice took them both by surprise. “Your daughter struggles with her sword training. I only meant to suggest you should consider sending for a sword master from Braavos, one of the water dancers. Their style is different to ours, more suited to her strengths. She will find it easier to master, perhaps.”

Eddard’s expression turned thoughtful. He barely remembered to nod at Stannis before leaving the man alone in the solar.

Stannis knew he should be offended, but found he did not have the strength for it. It seemed the talk had gone rather well, all things considered. And if Lysa Arryn had seen fit to write a secret letter to her sister, it would only serve to prove his suspicions right. Lord Stark would be marching south within a fortnight, and Stannis could finally leave King’s Landing behind and spend some time with his girl. He had made up his mind to empty out Storm’s End and bring her there, to his beloved castle, to spend her remaining days on its warm shores under the sun.

What little time Shireen had left, he would spend it by her side.

Before he went to bed, Stannis informed his personal guard that they were to ride out at noon. He went to sleep feeling calm. He was eager to be on his way, away from Winterfell, hopefully never to return. For a man who had spent his childhood in the Stormlands, the north was nothing but a frozen wasteland. He would not be sad to see the last of it.

He wanted to go home. Desperately.

His plans turned to dust when his men found Brandon Stark’s unconscious body lying at the foot of Winterfell’s Broken Tower, his bones broken like so many dry twigs. It then fell to Stannis to call for the maester and lady Stark, and to help move the boy into a bed where he could be treated. It fell to Stannis to ride out to find the hunting party, to let lord Stark know what happened to his son. It fell to Stannis to remain by Robert’s side, as the king paced restlessly, anxious for any scrap of information. With his friend gone to his son’s bedside, the king suddenly demanded his brother’s presence, refused to dismiss him.

And Stannis had always been dutiful, had always chosen his duty to his brother over his duty to his daughter.

So he stayed.


	6. In Men Whom Men Condemn As Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in the Godswood, a farewell to Jon, and a dance lesson.

 

* * *

Her lady mother had never liked the Godswood. Lady Catelyn was a daughter of Riverrun, a follower of the Faith of the Seven. For her, worship was a septon with a censor, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, and voices raised in song. But the gods of Winterfell were the old gods, nameless gods, and their wood was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years. It was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees, armored in grey-green needles, and of mighty oaks, old as the realm itself. Thick black trunks crowded close together here, while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots rose up from the earth to hamper careless feet.

At the center of the grove, an ancient weirwood tree brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face was carved into the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries, before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea. They were old, these eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, as her lord father was fond of telling her; they had watched the castle's granite walls rise around them.

Sansa stood beneath those red eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in the smell of moist earth and decay. For Mother’s sake, she honored the Seven. Their worship was a thing of gentle beauty, and she loved all things beautiful. But even though she had been born in Riverrun, same as her mother, Sansa Stark was a daughter of the north. She belonged to the white weirwood tree. This was her wood, and these were her gods.

It was easier to think here, to breathe, away from the castle and its occupants. The pale grey of morning had begun to filter in through the heavy canopy of leaves, and with it came the promise of a long, tedious day. Today was the day Jon left with uncle Benjen, to take the black and become a brother of the night’s watch. Today was the day her father set out south with the king, taking along two of her siblings.

 _Three_ , the thought was a knife in her chest, sharp and twisting. _He was meant to be taking three_.

For over a fortnight she had spent every spare moment in Bran’s room, watching as the healthy boy she knew wasted away while his mind remained lost in a dream world. The flesh had gone from him, and his skin now stretched tight over bones like sticks. Under the heavy furs covering him, his legs laid bent in wrong angles, broken beyond repair. The fight to stay alive had taken everything from her little brother. He seemed half a leaf to her, as if the first strong wind would carry him off to his grave.

Bran had been so excited to ride south, to sit tall and proud atop a proper horse. Now, she doubted he would ever open his eyes. Maester Luwin seemed to think he might pull through; that if he were to die, he would’ve done so by now. But Sansa saw him every day, and every day he was paler, thinner. _Weaker_. He showed no signs of waking up. And his wolf, his nameless wolf, had been howling day and night, as if in mourning.

She shuddered to think what might become of her mother, if Bran were to die now.

Lady Catelyn had not left her son’s side since Lord Baratheon’s men had discovered his unconscious body. She had been there, in his room, day in and day out. Not for a moment had she left Bran’s side. She had her meals brought to her there, and chamber pots as well, and a small hard bed to sleep on, though Sansa knew she scarcely slept at all. She fed him herself, the honey and water and herb mixture that sustained his life. The only one she trusted to watch over Bran in her stead was her eldest daughter, and so Sansa tried to spend as much time as she could up there.

But it was hard. Since Bran’s fall and Mother’s collapse, the entire castle had been plunged into chaos. Preparations had to be made for lord Stark’s departure, and Sansa had been forced to take on unfamiliar duties. Maester Luwin, suddenly an advisor rather than a teacher, had begun trailing her like a shadow, entreating her to choose men to fill the posts of those her father meant to take south with him.

Father, Robb, Arya, Jory, Vayon, Hullen, Alyn and so many, many others... and Jon. _Jon_. How was she supposed to make it, how was she supposed to rule, if they all left her when she needed them most?

She knelt before the Heart Tree in prayer, eyes closed against the hot tears that gathered at their corners. Her mouth moved silently over the words, but no sound came out. The Seven had their hymns, but the old gods required no songs. “The old gods demand honesty”, Father had promised her, when she had been barely old enough to understand the words. “Be truthful, and they will keep you safe.”

 _I’m so tired_ , she confessed wordlessly, trusting the gods to keep her secrets. _I’m so tired,_ _and my heart hurts all the time_.

The sound of dry leaves crunching under heavy boots drew her attention. At her side, Shield had risen to face the intruder, grey fur bristling with tension. Sansa rose slowly to her feet, brushing dirt and muddy snow away from her black breeches before turning around. The weight of a sword, strapped to her waist, felt new and foreign. It was given to her only yesterday by Mikken, the smith. The old man had blushed profusely when presenting her with the blade, explaining it had been made especially for lord Eddard’s daughter, by order of the king’s brother. It was made to resemble the thin swords of the Braavosi, carried by men all over the free cities across the narrow sea. The sword held the deep blue sheen of castle-forged steel, and was almost as sharp as Ice. It was perfectly balanced, too, lighter even than a wooden training sword.

It was a thoughtful gift, but hardly enough as to make her welcome the sight of lord Stannis Baratheon, tall and intimidating as ever, here in her quiet sanctuary.

“Forgive me, my lady”, the lord of Storm’s End said, his tone anything but apologetic. “I did not mean to intrude upon your time of prayer. I have not encountered anyone here before, so early in the day.”

She wanted to tell him he had been a guest at Winterfell for less than a month. She wanted to tell him that this was the place where every single one of her ancestors, going as far back as Brandon the Builder, had knelt down in prayer. She wanted to tell him he may be brother to a king, but this Godswood once belonged to the Kings of Winter, and it was no place for a southerner. She wanted to tell him that, even though she rarely had the time now, this place was _hers_.

In the end, all she said was, “I thought every lord south of the neck was a servant of the Seven, lord Baratheon. If it please you, I can show you the way to my mother’s sept.” The effect of her polite smile was somewhat ruined by Shield, who bared sharp teeth at the man.

Lord Baratheon moved his gaze from her face to her wolf, and barked out a laugh. She _hated_ the sound. The man never smiled, and on those rare occasions when he deigned to laugh it came as a hollow, unpleasant sound, more air than actual mirth. The few times she had heard it, she had marveled how laughter could sound so humorless.

“I stopped believing in the gods, old and new alike, the day I saw my parents’ ship break up across the bay. Any god so monstrous as to drown my mother and father would never have my worship, I vowed. The High Septon does love to prattle at me of how all justice and goodness flows from the Seven, but all I ever saw of them was made by men.”

Her confusion must have been obvious to him, for the lord scowled and said, “I did not come here for a discussion on religion, my lady, and as your wolf has made clear, I’m intruding. I will take my leave of you both.” His bow was perfunctory and stiff.

She sighed.

“Lord Baratheon, please!”

He did not speak. His gaze was steady, his eyes impossibly blue. _This is what the sea must look like after a storm,_ she thought.

“Thank you, for the sword. It is a thoughtful gift.”

Lord Baratheon blinked. Slowly.

“I also wish to apologize, my lord, if I have inadvertently offended you.”

Her words earned her a scoff, and an uncomfortable twitch of those thin lips. He was clean shaven today, not a hint of stubble across his strong jaw. It was easy to follow the muscles there, as they clenched under his pale skin. Shield sat back on her haunches and tilted her head to the side, fascinated by the sound of his grinding teeth.

“Your courtesies are impeccable”, lord Baratheon’s words implied a compliment, but his tone was dry. Derisive. “I am sure any offence you have ever given has been done so inadvertently.”

Indignation burnt within her, and a hot blush bloomed across her face. She had never met a man as callous as the lord of Storm’s End. “I do not appreciate being mocked”, she told him, proud when her voice did not waver.

“Neither do I”, he conceded, with an imperceptible nod. He sighed deeply then, losing some of the tension in his rigid posture. His gaze was searching as he took her in, looking her over from head to toe.

She had chosen to forgo a dress today in favor of black breeches with high leather boots, and a doublet of deep grey. Her long auburn hair had been pulled back into a tight braid, not a single strand out of place. Her only concession to jewelry was a silver brooch in the shape of a direwolf, and a belt made of delicate silver rings.

She wondered what Lord Stannis Baratheon saw when he looked at her with those piercing blue eyes.

Whatever he saw, it made him sigh a second time, his breath misting in the cold morning air as he exhaled loudly. “Forgive me”, his voice remained deep and harsh, but his derisive tone was gone. He struck her as a man who did not apologize very often, or very well. Before she could gather her bearings and offer some reply his mood shifted again, sudden and quick. His frown returned, deepening the lines etched in his face.

“How is your brother?” he asked gruffly.

 _Such a peculiar man_ , she thought to herself. Aloud, she said, “Unchanged, my lord. The maester is hopeful, though.”

His nodded distractedly, his eyes staring ahead of her, into thin air. His thoughts had drifted far from her, she realized, though she had no idea where they had strayed.

“His back is broken”, he stated. She nodded hesitantly, aware he wasn’t looking at her. “Even if he were to wake up, even if… he will forever be a cripple… Is it not better, kinder, to let him die?”

The anger twisting in her gut could not be concealed behind a false mask of politeness. “We may be savages in your eyes”, she said hotly, “but here in the north we do not murder innocent children.”

Her words found their mark. The tall man snapped to attention, nostrils flaring, and she could hear the grating sound of his teeth as they ground together. In response, Shield emitted a low growl.

“Do not speak of matters in which you are ignorant, child.” His tone was cutting, his derision cold and clear.

“I know enough”, she insisted. “I also know your own daughter is dying of grayscale. Is it not _kinder_ , my Lord, to spare her the terrible pain and kill her before she turns to stone?”

Never in her life had she spoken in such a manner, never had she chosen words with the intent to cause pain. It was petty, and cruel, and unbecoming. Unladylike.

 _This is not who I am_. Shame filled her, checking her barbed tongue. _I am good and kind, this is not who I am._

His voice, thick with emotion, startled her. “Yes”, the lord of Storm’s End admitted. Derision had been replaced with raw anguish. It was the first open display of emotion she had ever witnessed in him. She was shocked to realize how deep it ran. “It would be a kindness to give her the gift of death, if I were strong enough to give it. But I love her too much to part with her before I must, you see; and I am too weak to carry the weight of her death upon my soul.”

A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressing. Shame threatened to swallow her whole.

In the distance, the wolves of Winterfell began to howl. She could tell them apart, if she listened closely. First was Bran’s nameless wolf, then Nymeria, and Shaggydog, and finally, Robb’s Grey Wind joined the pack. She didn’t strain her ears for Ghost. Jon’s albino was always silent. At her side, Shield gave a pitiful whimper, her golden eyes pleading. Sansa gave her wolf a small pat on the head, and the wolf ran off to find her kin. Sansa knew they would gather under Bran’s room, howling and howling ‘til her lady mother tired of them and shut the window. They were sure to wake the entire castle, and Sansa knew she would soon be needed in the yard, to oversee final preparations for Father’s departure.

“What has your father told you, of my actions in Braavos?” Lord Baratheon asked. His momentary weakness had passed, and left no hints in the tall man. He stood tense and alert before her, no trace of emotion left in those deep blue eyes. He was a hard man, Sansa realized, unlikely to bend even in the face of terrible grief. She thought he could have been well liked, here in the north, given enough time.

“My father would never speak ill of you”, she told him truthfully. Her lord father placed an inordinate amount of trust in Stannis Baratheon. Lord Eddard loved the king, and shared true affection with his childhood friend. But the deep respect between the lord of Winterfell and the lord of Storm’s End was plain to see.

“I’ve had the tale from Desmond, a member of my father’s guard.”

“I hope he guards lord Stark better than he does his own tongue”, lord Baratheon muttered. Were it not for his dark tone, she might’ve giggled at his sharp words.

“You are very young. But your father is riding south today and your mother is of little use to you as she is now. In a better world, you would be years older when you learnt this truth, but these are dark and troubled times and I fear the worst is ahead.”

His words rumbled through her. The warning they carried held the weight of a promise, a prophecy. _A direwolf, dead in the snow, an antler in its throat._ She shivered under his cold stare, but the lord of Storm’s End carried on, uncaring.

“You are not some simpering, empty-headed lady; your success will not be measured by how well you please your lord husband or run your kitchens. You are to be the ruler of Winterfell, of the entire north. Your lords will look to you to lead, to keep them safe and prosperous. Should they ever doubt your ability to do so, they will tear you apart and bring you down. Weakness is not tolerated, especially when a woman aspires to rule over men. Do you understand what I’m saying, child?”

With sudden clarity, she understood what such a man must see when he gazed at her. All the things she tried so desperately to hide, her youth and inexperience, her fears and her doubts. He looked at her and saw a little girl, dressing up and playing make-belief.

“Someday, they will look to you to make a terrible decision, one they are not willing to make themselves. It will be ugly, and unchivalrous, and you will blanch at the mere thought of it. But it will be your duty to see it through, because it will mean the safety of those you have sworn to protect. The choice will be your own, child- taint yourself for the sake of greater things, or remain pure and let the world burn. When that day comes, when they whisper in your ear the horror they expect you to carry out for them, I hope you will be strong enough to make the right choice.”

She didn’t think she would ever be able to kill children, but she knew better than to say so aloud. She wondered if her lord father could do such a thing. A small part of her knew Eddard Stark would never take the lives of infants, even for the sake of something as grand as the peace of the seven kingdoms. She wondered if that made her father weak, in lord Baratheon’s eyes.

“You are a friend to my father, to house Stark.” Lord Baratheon nodded solemnly. “Will you promise to keep him safe, down in King’s Landing, to the best of your ability?”

His eyes widened, and a flicker of emotion sparked and died quickly within their depths. She had surprised him.

“To the best of my ability, yes”, he promised.

“Thank you”, she said, and it was genuine and heartfelt. For all that she did not like him, Stannis Baratheon was a man of his word. She felt safer, knowing he meant to be an ally to her father.

The lord of Storm’s End bowed before her and took his leave. She waited a while longer, listening to the sounds of the Godswood awakening around her, before making her way out of the wood and into the castle.

Once she was in the yard, everything soon turned into noise and chaos. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow soon began to fall, swirling through the castle gates. Everyone was in an uproar to be off.

Sansa was standing in the middle of it, shouting commands with the best of them, when Jon found her. He seemed to have grown of late, as if the choice to take the black had somehow made him older. Ghost was at his side, and the white wolf butted his head affectionately against Shield. Jon stared at her for a long moment, then quietly said, “You look good, Stark. Like a proper lord ought to.”

Sansa tried very hard not to blush. After lord Baratheon’s scrutiny, it was good to hear her brother’s simple praise. “Uncle Benjen is looking for you”, she told him. “He wanted to be gone an hour ago.”

“I know”, Jon said. “Soon.” He looked around at all the noise and confusion. “Leaving is harder than I thought.”

“For me too”, Sansa admitted. She could feel the snow in her auburn hair, melting from the heat of her body. “Did you see him?”

Jon nodded, his face crumpling with anguish. Sansa knew he had stayed away because of her mother’s presence. Not once had her brother gone to visit, for fear of lady Catelyn’s ire. He had gone only when there was no more time left. The sight of Bran’s wasted body must have been terrible for him to see for the first time. Her brother seemed haunted.

“He's not going to die”, Sansa tried to reassure, full of false certainty. “I know it.”

“You Starks are hard to kill”, Jon said, but his voice was flat. The visit had taken a great toll, it seemed. She knew her brother well enough to sense when something was wrong. “My mother…” she trailed off, hesitant.

“She was… very kind”, he told her. Sansa almost believed him.

She let the matter drop. She loved them both so much, the mother she shouldn’t have resembled and the brother she should have considered a threat. She had no wish to resent one for the sake of the other. Sometimes, it was easier to turn a blind eye. “Good.” She said, faking a broad smile. “The next time I see you, you'll be all in black.”

Jon smiled back at her, but it was pained and forced. “It was always my color”, he quipped, trying for levity. “How long do you think it will be?”

“Soon enough”, Sansa promised. She meant it, too. She would not abandon her brother to freeze alone up there, with only uncle Benjen for family. She pulled Jon to her and embraced him fiercely. “Farewell, Jon Snow”, She whispered in his ear, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Jon hugged her back, strong and shaking. “And you, Sansa Stark. Take care of Bran for me, will you?”

“I will.”

They broke apart and looked at each other awkwardly. “Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if I saw you”, she finally said.

“Ah. I have one more farewell to make”, Jon told her, smiling mischievously. Sansa laughed. Poor Arya had been confined to her rooms since dawn, where septa Mordane was busily showing her how a proper southorn lady ought to pack her trunk. Arya’s first attempt had been deemed an utter failure. The little brat would probably be overjoyed to see a friendly face right about now.  

“Then I haven't seen you”, Sansa said. Jon gave her hand a final squeeze. He left her standing there, alone in the snow, surrounded by wagons and wolves and horses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following morning, the castle was so eerily quiet Sansa could easily believe it had been deserted. She stayed in bed late, cuddling with Shield, and came out only when it was past midday, to go train with ser Rodrik.

She arrived to an empty yard. Ser Rodrik was not present, nor Theon or any of the younger men who trained with her. She was beginning to think she must have made some mistake when an unfamiliar voice said, “You are late, boy.”

A slight man, with a bald head and a great beak of a nose, stepped out of the shadows. He was holding two slender swords, much like the one Mikken had made for her. “Tomorrow, you will be here at midday.” He had an accent, the lilt of the Free Cities.

“Who are you?” Sansa asked.

“I am your dancing master.” Before she could tell him she had not had a proper dancing lesson since the tender age of eight, the man tossed one of the blades at her. She grabbed for it, missed, and heard it clatter to the ground.

“Tomorrow, you will catch it. Now pick it up.”

It was a blunt blade, larger and not of the same quality as her own. She held it up with both hands, assuming the stance ser Rodrik had been drilling into her for years.

The bald man clicked his teeth together, dissatisfied. “That is not the way, boy. This is not a greatsword, that is needing two hands to swing it. You will take the blade in one hand.”

She moved to hold the sword in one hand, and frowned at the curious stranger. “It’s too heavy”, she said.

“It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong, and for balancing. A hollow inside is filled with lead, just so. One hand now is all that is needing.”

Sansa wiped a sweaty palm over her pants, and held the sword higher with her right hand. “Now, you are standing wrong”, the man clucked with disapproval. “Turn your body sideface, yes, so. You are skinny as the shaft of a spear, do you know. That is good, the target is smaller like this. Now the grip, let me see.” He moved closer and peered at her hand, prying her fingers apart and rearranging them. “Just so, yes. Do not squeeze it so tight, no, the grip must be deft, delicate.”

“What if I drop it?”

“The steel must be part of your arm”, the bald man told her, unconcerned. “Can you drop a part of your arm? No. Nine years Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, he knows these things. Listen to him, boy.”

It was the third time he had called her ‘boy’. “I’m a girl.”

“Boy, girl”, Syrio Forel shrugged. “You are a sword, that is all.” He clicked his teeth together. “Just so, that is the grip. You are not holding a battle-axe, you are holding a…”

“Needle?” she smiled, thinking of septa Mordane and Arya.

“Just so. Now we will begin the dance. Remember, child, this is not the iron dance of Westeros we are learning, the knight's dance, hacking and hammering, no. This is the Braavosi dance, the water dance, swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? When you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die.”

He took a step back, and raised his own blade. “Now, you will try to strike me.”

Sansa tried to strike him. She tried for two hours, until every muscle in her body was sore and aching, while Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together and told her what to do.

“I can’t do it”, she said breathlessly, when at last the bald man agreed to afford her a short respite. She followed him over to the wall, where he settled down onto a stone bench.

“Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?”

She considered the question. “You were the finest swordsman in the city?”

“Just so, but why?” he asked again. “Other men were stronger, faster, younger… Why was Syrio Forel the best?”

When she remained silent, Syrio Forel touched the tip of his little finger lightly to his eyelid. “The seeing”, he told her in his lilting accent. “The true seeing, that is the heart of it. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, and when they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord’s menagerie. Such animals as you have never seen, striped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things.”

The Braavosi paused, and smirked at her, with the shrewd expression of a practiced storyteller. “On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Many Braavosi had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. ‘Have you ever seen her like?’ he asked of me. And to him I said, ‘Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,’ and the Sealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword.”

Sansa screwed up her face. “I don’t understand.”

Syrio clicked his teeth together. “The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected a fabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious small ears, they said. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said ‘her,’ and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?”

She thought about it. “You saw what was there.”

“Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way, knowing the truth.”

“What do you see when you look at me?” Sansa asked quickly, before fear could check her tongue.

Syrio Forel stared at her, long and hard, before allowing a small smile. “Porcelain and ivory”, he told her, “and the blue of the rivers. But that is not bad, no”, he added, as if sensing her disappointment. “It hides the steel and the snow underneath. All is reversed in you, it will make your enemies more awkward. That is good, boy.”

A surprised laugh escaped her lips, true and joyful. It rang through the empty yard like a clear bell, and Syrio Forel continued to watch her for a while, before rising to his feet and ordering her back into her opening stance.

And even though she was tired, even though every muscle in her body was sore, Sansa Stark felt as light as a feather.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 **In men whom men condemn as ill  
****I find so much of goodness still.**  
**In men whom men pronounce divine**  
 **I find so much of sin and blot**  
 **I do not dare to draw a line**  
 **Between the two, where God has not.**

Joaquin Miller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wish you a merry Christmas,  
> We wish you a merry Christmas,  
> We wish you a merry Christmas,  
> And a Happy New Year!
> 
> This will probably be the last update for the next couple of weeks, as yuletide is upon us. But I'm happy I managed to squeeze it in, and hope you all accept this small token of my affection.


	7. The Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her childhood has ended the day Lord Eddard rode south with the king.
> 
> Now she must learn how to rule.

                                                                

* * *

 

Father was eight days gone when she climbed up to join maester Luwin and her mother in Bran’s sickroom. The maester had insisted her mother be present when they went over the account books, to review the figures of just how much the royal visit had cost them. The king’s party had healthy appetites. Winterfell’s stores would have to be replenished, and quickly.

 _Winter is coming_ , Sansa mused as she climbed up the stairs. Inside the thick stone walls it was warm and quiet, while snow swirled in the darkness outside.

The door to Bran’s room had been left slightly ajar, and the light of a good hearth spilled out into the dimly lit corridor. Her mother’s voice carried as well. Lady Catelyn was not pleased.

“I said, take the books away. The steward will attend to our needs.” Sansa had never heard her lady mother speak to maester Luwin in such a tone.

“We have no steward”, the maester reminded her mother in a placating tone. “Poole went south to establish lord Eddard’s household in King’s Landing.”

Sansa climbed the last two steps to stand before the door, nodding silently at the two sentries posted outside. She remained standing there, in the shadows, listening.

“Oh, yes. I remember”, lady Catelyn finally replied, but her tone remained distant, faraway.

The sound of Luwin’s grey robes rustling reached Sansa’s ears. She could picture him in her mind, small and old and grey, moving across the room, tinkering with a lamp or a piece of parchment. Her heart swelled with affection for the old man.

“There are several appointments that require our immediate attention, my lady. Besides the steward, we need a captain of the guards to fill Jory’s place, a new master of horse…”

“A master of horse?” Lady Catelyn’s voice was like a whip.

“Ye… Yes, my lady”, the old man came close to stuttering. “Hullen rode south with lord Eddard, so…”

“My son lies here broken and dying, Luwin, and you wish to discuss a new master of horse? Do you think I care what happens in the stables? Do you think it matters to me one whit? I would gladly butcher every horse in Winterfell with my own hands if it would open Bran's eyes, do you understand that? _Do you?_ "

Sansa had heard enough. With a push against the heavy wooden door, she moved into the room just as maester Luwin stammered, “Y…Yes, my… My lady, but the appointments…”

“I will see to the appointments”, Sansa interrupted briskly. She had been avoiding the maester these last few days, running off to train with Syrio or play with Shield. She should’ve made time to listen to him, she now realized.

Two pairs of eyes, one grey, one blue, were set upon her. Luwin’s were full of relief, and he nodded gratefully at her. Her mother’s expression was blank, as if lady Catelyn did not recognize her firstborn. Sansa wondered whether her mother was aware she had been shouting like a madwoman. She wondered whether she cared. It seemed all lady Catelyn cared about in the whole wide world was the frail boy lying motionless by her side.

Maester Luwin broke the silence. “I have prepared a list of those we might wish to consider for the vacant offices”, he said, offering Sansa a paper he’d plucked from his sleeve.

Sansa gave the old man a smile, and skimmed over the list of names. A lock of auburn hair fell over her eyes. She pulled it behind her ear, and looked up to find Mother’s gaze had softened. There was a hint of warmth there, a trace of recognition.

To Luwin she said, “These are all good men. We’ll discuss it in the morning, in Father’s solar.” She handed back the list, and maester Luwin gave a small bow before the paper vanished into his sleeve. She had not yet grown accustomed to people bowing before her when she spoke to them.

“Very good, my lady”, the short man said. She had not grown accustomed to them referring to her as ‘my lady’, either. Before, when Luwin had been her teacher, she had always been plain ‘Sansa’ to him. On rare occasions, when she struggled with a lesson, he had even called her ‘sweet child’.

She was slowly beginning to understand that her childhood was over. It had ended the day Lord Eddard rode out of Winterfell with the king.

“Leave us now”, the tone of command came easier, now, but still sounded foreign to her ears. The maester bowed again, and took his leave. Sansa shut the door behind him, and inhaled deeply before turning to face her lady mother. The room reeked of illness and stale air.

“Mother, what are you doing?” her tone was harsh, colder than she meant for it to be. Sansa stared at the woman she had always believed she took after, and came to a frightening conclusion. _I must be stronger than she is_. _She has allowed herself to fall apart, and I cannot afford to do the same._

“What am I doing?” her mother echoed, puzzled. “How can you ask that? What do you imagine I’m doing? I am taking care of your brother. I am taking care of Bran.”

 _You are wallowing in grief_ , Sansa wanted to scream. “Is that what you call it?” she asked instead, her voice deceptively soft. “You have not left this room since Bran was hurt. You didn’t even come to the gate when Father, Robb and Arya went south.”

“I said my farewells to them here, and watched them ride out from that window”, her mother nodded in the direction of the large window, now closed against the chill of nighttime. “I can't leave him, even for a moment, not when any moment could be his last. I have to be with him, if… if…”

 _If he dies_. She didn’t speak the words aloud, knowing it would be cruel. Mother reached for Bran’s hand, sliding his fingers through her own. He looked so frail and thin, no strength left in him. Sansa wondered if there was any warmth left in his skin. From where she stood, her little brother looked dead already.

She tried to be gentle, comforting, when she spoke up. “He’s not going to die, Mother. Maester Luwin says the time of greatest danger has passed.”

“And if Luwin is wrong? What if Bran needs me and I’m not here?”

“Rickon needs you”, Sansa exclaimed sharply. Too sharply. Lady Catelyn’s eyes widened with guilt for one brief moment, but her gaze soon returned to her unconscious child. “Mother, Rickon is three. He does not understand what’s happening. He thinks everyone has deserted him, so he follows me around all day, clutching my leg and crying. I don’t know what to do with him…” she paused, surprised to discover there were tears in her eyes.

“Mother, I need you too”, she admitted, chocking on the hot tears. “I’m trying, I swear I’m trying as hard as I can, but…” her voice cracked under so much emotion. She turned away from the sight of her broken little brother, and of her mother, who stared at her without a hint of sympathy.

Outside the tower, a wolf began to howl. A single, traitorous tear ran down her cheek, hot and wet. Sansa wiped at it angrily with the back of her hand.

She strode over to open the window, letting the night air into the stuffy tower room. The howling grew louder. It was a cold and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair.

“Don’t”, her mother said. “Bran needs to stay warm.”

“He needs to hear them sing”, Sansa replied stubbornly. Out in the darkness, a second wolf began to howl, and then a third. She was lost in the sound, deriving strange comfort from the grief of it. She even welcomed the gentle touch of snowflakes, brushing against her hot cheeks. _I am a Stark of Winterfell_. That simple truth was growing stronger inside of her every day. _Beneath my skin there’s steel and snow._

Mother’s hysteric cry startled her. “Make them stop! I can’t stand it! Make them stop, make them stop, kill them all if you must, just make them stop!” Lady Catelyn fell to the ground, shaking like a fallen leaf. Sansa rushed to her side, all thoughts of anger momentarily forgotten. “Don’t be afraid, Mother”, she crooned softly, enveloping her lady mother in a strong embrace. Lady Catelyn continued to shiver and shake in her arms. “They would never hurt Bran”, she promised, rocking them both back and forth.

Slowly, clumsily, she managed to steer her mother to the narrow bed in the corner of the sickroom. “Close your eyes”, Sansa urged gently. “Rest. You’ve barely slept since Bran’s fall.”

“I can’t.” The sight of lady Catelyn Stark crying washed away the last remnants of her daughter’s anger. “Gods forgive me, my darling, I can’t… What if he dies while I’m asleep? What if he dies? What if he dies…” Mother’s tears turned into high-pitched screams, the sound blending with the mournful howling of the wolves, forming an unbearable cacophony of grief. “Oh gods, Sansa, please! Shut the window!”

“Only if you swear to me you’ll sleep”, she said, but went to the window without waiting for a reply. As she reached for the shutters, a different sound reached her ears. “Dogs”, Sansa realized, her hand stopping midair. “All the dogs are barking. They’ve never done that before…” Her eyes caught a dazzling flash of crimson as it leapt high into the air. Her mind was slow to catch up.

 _Fire_ , it finally cried. Her hand was still hanging uselessly in the air. Her body was stone.

“Fire”, she managed to whisper, meeting Mother’s gaze. Even in the lamplight, lady Catelyn’s complexion was ashen.

“Help me!” her mother said urgently, sitting up in her narrow bed. “Help me with Bran.”

“The library’s tower is on fire”, was all Sansa managed to reply. Once, before Bran fell and everything went wrong, she would’ve turned to her mother for guidance. But one look at lady Catelyn was enough to quell such a notion. There would be no help, no counsel, from the woman who was currently rushing to Bran’s side, blind and deaf to anything but her little boy. As soon as she comprehended that the fire was across the bailey, and unlikely to reach them here, Lady Catelyn sagged with relief. “Thank the gods”, she whispered.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, hard, and struggled not to scream.

She turned away instead, feeling her anger rekindle much like the flickering red flames that were leaping up into the black sky. With growing speed, she made her way to the door. “Stay here, Mother. I’ll come back as soon as the fire’s out.” She was running before she was done speaking. With a quick shout the guards posted outside the door followed her as she descended in a wild rush, taking the stairs two and three at a time.

Outside, the air was full of terrified exclamations of “Fire!”, the whinny of frightened horses and the frantic barking of dogs. _But no direwolves_ , Sansa noticed. The howling was gone. The direwolves had fallen silent.

It was a mad dash to the library, and Sansa’s breath came swift and short by the time she reached the foot of the tower. The small gathered crowd turned to look at her with wide eyes; guards and stable-hands and kitchen maids all gazed at her, waiting for her to speak.

She should have been terrified. Paralyzed with fear. But she had no time for such childish notions. Her childhood had ended, and they were all expecting her to lead, to command them.

 _I am a Stark of Winterfell_ , she told herself firmly. _I am made of steel and snow._

She barked several quick orders, the harsh tone of command escaping her lips effortlessly. A heartbeat passed, silent and stunned, before the crowd sprang into action. Without a hint of hesitation, every man, woman and child rushed to carry out their lady’s bidding.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing to catch her eye when she barged back into Bran’s sickroom was the sight of his nameless direwolf lying calmly on the bed, jaws red and dripping with fresh blood.

Yellow eyes stared back at her, calm and sedate.

The second thing to catch her eye was the sight of the butchered corpse of a man, throat torn out and blood sprayed across the floor in countless tiny drops. The sight was as arresting as it was revolting. _Like rain,_ she marveled, stupidly. Shifting her gaze slowly from the mangled corpse back to the seemingly docile wolf, she did not have to guess how the man came to meet his end.

Only then did she finally register her lady mother, lying next to the dead man, laughing hysterically while blood continued to gush out of the deep cuts running across her palms.

She thought she had moved quickly when the library was on fire. She moved even quicker, now.

Her mother was soon wrapped in warm blankets, and Sansa refused all help and led lady Catelyn by hand back to her mother’s chambers, ignoring the warm blood that slickened their entwined fingers. Sometime during their slow progress the laughter died in Lady Catelyn’s throat, replaced by a silence far more alarming.

In the chambers of the lady of Winterfell, Sansa watched old Nan as she undressed Mother and helped her into a scolding hot bath. She watched closely as old Nan washed her with great tenderness, every move, every press, meant to soothe and comfort. Lady Catelyn stared into the water as the blood dyed them crimson. She did not speak.

Mother remained silent when maester Luwin arrived to dress her wounds. Sansa inhaled sharply at the sight, but did not flinch or look away. _Remember this_ , she ordered herself. The cuts in Mother’s fingers were deep, almost to the bone, and the skin around the cuts had already begun to swell. The maester warned that the pain was only just beginning, and gave Mother milk of the poppy to help her sleep.

 _Remember this_ , she repeated, when her lady mother was finally in bed, breathing deep and even, and Sansa ran a trembling hand through her auburn hair. She could feel a bald patch, where a cluster of hair had been pulled out with a savage yank.

She rose abruptly and walked out, maester Luwin trailing behind her.

“My lady…” he started, as soon as the door shut behind them.

“No, Luwin”, she warned, turning a furious gaze on the old man. The maester stumbled back, as if struck. The motion cooled her ire instantly.

“A stranger came into my house, my family’s house, and attacked my mother.” Her voice was shaking. Her body was shaking, too, little tremors she couldn’t control. She tried to breathe deeply, to ground herself. The long exhale came out harsh and trembling. _Why can't I stop shaking?_ She inhaled again, palms clenching into white fists, fingernails biting into the skin.

“Breathe slowly, my lady”, Luwin’s voice was kind, his grey eyes concerned. “Your body is suffering the results of over excitement, you should drink some honeyed tea and go to sleep.”

It sounded lovely. Sansa wished she could just heed the maester’s advice and go to bed, and pretend to be a child for one more night. A soft scoff escaped her. _My childhood has ended._

“Not until I’m certain the castle is secure”, she told the maester, conviction making her voice steady. Her firm tone caused Luwin to sigh with resignation, but he offered no resistance, only a small bow. “I am yours to command, my lady”, the maester said. “What are your orders?”

“I want every nook and cranny of the castle searched, including the kennels and the glass houses”, her voice grew stronger, surer, with every word. “If any guard is still asleep in the Guard’s Hall, I want them out of bed and helping. I want every servant questioned, starting with the new hands we took on for the king’s visit. Someone must have seen him, someone must have known him. I want answers.”

The maester nodded. “It will be done”, he assured her, calm and efficient.

“I want hourly patrols in all the yards, and shut the gates. No one leaves or enters the castle. And double the guards outside lady Stark’s door, Rickon’s too…”

“What of Brandon?” Luwin interrupted. “Until lady Stark recovers…”

The idea had already occurred to her. “The guards are back at his door, and they are to remain at their post even if all of Winterfell goes up in flames. And I’ve left orders that his direwolf is to remain with my brother at all times”, she said, smiling bitterly when she saw Luwin’s eyes widen with fear.

 _A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat_ , she recalled Father’s words. And she remembered the sight of bloody jaws, and calm, yellow eyes. Tonight, it seemed Father’s warning had become a blessing.

“That wolf saved Mother’s life”, she told the maester. “Find a clever maid with steady hands and assign her to take care of Bran ‘til Mother is recovered. Choose one you trust implicitly, Luwin, because the wolf is staying, and I do pity any who try to enter my brother’s sickroom with malicious intent.”

The maester cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Very well.”

“And let Mollen know he is to be our new captain of the guards”, she added finally, as an afterthought. The man had shown himself to be quick and level-headed tonight. Luwin nodded thoughtfully at her words. There was proud approbation in his grey eyes. Only last week, such a sight would have filled her with joy. Now, she merely dismissed the old man with a fond smile and a wave of her hand.

“Send for me as soon as my lady mother is awake”, she reminded him, and went off in search of honeyed tea.

The grey light of dawn was already filtering into the room through the shutters by the time she crawled into bed. Shield was there, warm and comforting, and Sansa cried into her grey fur until she fell asleep. She ended up sleeping for an entire day.

Lady Catelyn ended up sleeping for four.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She arrived in Mother’s chambers accompanied by ser Rodrik, Syrio Forel, and Mollen, the muscular guardsman with the square brown beard whom she’d made the new captain of the guards. Lady Catelyn frowned suspiciously upon seeing Syrio standing in her bedchamber, and Sansa realized she had never met the Braavosi. A hint of old bitter disappointment flared, but the sight of the heavy bandages around Mother’s palms was more than enough to keep her in check.

“Who was he?” Mother demanded to know.

“No one knows his name”, Hallis Mollen admitted, a trace of bitterness in his voice. Mollen had taken his new duties to heart. The mystery of the attacker’s identity had become a constant cause for consternation for the new captain. “He was no man of Winterfell, m’lady, but some says they seen him here and about the castle these past few weeks.”

“One of the king’s men, then”, lady Catelyn said, and Sansa nodded her agreement. She had reached a similar conclusion. “Or one of the Lannisters’”, she told her mother. “Either way, he must have waited behind when the others left.”

“Maybe”, Mollen said. “With all these strangers filling up Winterfell of late, there’s no way of saying who he belonged to.”

Syrio clucked his teeth, drawing a curious gaze from her mother. “The man was hiding in your stables”, Syrio said in his strange accent. “The smell does not lie.”

“And how could he have gone unnoticed?” Mother inquired, sharply.

Mollen looked abashed, just as he had two days earlier when Sansa had demanded to know the same, and in a similar tone. “Between the horses lord Eddard took south and them we sent north to the night's watch, the stalls were half-empty. It were no great trick to hide from the stableboys. Could be Hodor saw him, the talk is that boy's been acting queer, but simple as he is…" Mollen shook his head.

“We found where he'd been sleeping”, ser Rodrik said. “He had ninety silver stags in a leather bag buried beneath the straw.”

“It's good to know my son's life was not sold cheaply”, Lady Catelyn quipped, bitterly.

_So, he came for Bran._

“Begging your pardon, m'lady”, Mollen’s disbelief was evident in his heavy features. “You saying he was out to kill your boy?”

Ser Rodrik seemed doubtful as well. “That's madness”, the stout man said, pulling at his white whiskers.

“He came for Bran”, lady Catelyn insisted. “He kept muttering how I wasn't supposed to be there. He set the library on fire thinking I would rush to put it out, taking any guards with me. If I hadn't been half-mad with grief, it would have worked.”

"But why?” Sansa asked. It was the one thing which made no sense. “Why would anyone want to kill Bran? He's only a little boy, helpless, sleeping…"

Lady Catelyn gave her firstborn a challenging look. “If you are to rule in the north, you must think these things through, Sansa”. Once, such a rebuke would have been enough to make her cringe. Now she met Mother’s gaze steadily, mulling over the matter. “Answer your own question”, her lady mother ordered, “Why would anyone want to kill a sleeping child?”

Before Sansa could find an answer, servants entered with a plate of food fresh from the kitchens. They brought hot bread, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, a rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, a wedge of cheese, a pot of mint tea… And with it all came maester Luwin.

“How is my son, maester?” Lady Catelyn asked immediately, and a hint of her former madness flashed in her Tully blue eyes.

Maester Luwin lowered his eyes. “Unchanged, my lady.”

Sansa followed her mother’s movements closely, searching for any sign that lady Catelyn might fall back into that bottomless pit of self-pity and despair. But all Mother did was flex her bandaged hands, and order the servants away. Even the tone she used was the same as Sansa remembered, that rare blend of authority and kindness.

As soon as the servants were gone, however, lady Catelyn turned back to her firstborn with a sharp look. “Do you have an answer yet?”

She did, but it was incomplete. “Someone is afraid Bran might wake up”, she said, “afraid of what he might say or do, afraid of something he knows.”

Mother did not smile, but Sansa could tell she was proud.

Sansa turned to the captain of the guards. “We will double the guards on Bran’s door and at the foot of the tower. If there was one killer, there could be others. No one sees Bran without my warrant.”

“I will see to it immediately, m'lady” Mollen promised. Confusion marred lady Catelyn’s fair features as she moved her gaze from the guard to her daughter. _She is only just beginning to notice I now rule in Father’s stead_. Sansa stood a little taller.

“Let his wolf stay in the room with him”, she reminded the captain, when Mollen was at the door. Lady Catelyn startled at the mention of the direwolf. “Yes”, Mother said, and then again- “Yes, the wolf should stay.”   

Hallis Mollen bowed once more and left the room.

“Lady Stark”, ser Rodrik said when the guardsman had gone. Two women looked up, and the aging master-at-arms reddened. “Lady Catelyn”, he corrected himself. Syrio Forel smirked, and Sansa hid a smile. Her mother looked perplexed. “Did you chance to notice the dagger the killer used?”

“The circumstances did not allow me to examine it closely, but I can vouch for its edge”, lady Catelyn replied with a dry smile. “Why do you ask?”

Sansa moved to withdraw the blade from its sheath at her waist, where it had been every waking moment since the guards brought it to her. Even while she slept, she kept it tucked beneath her pillow.

“We found the knife still in the man’s grasp”, she explained. “It seemed altogether too fine a weapon for such a man, so I asked Syrio to look at it”, she nodded in the Braavosi’s direction, but chose not to waste time on further introductions. Syrio moved forward with catlike grace, taking the elegant knife from her grasp.

“This blade is of old Valyria and the hilt dragonbone”, the Braavosi elaborated, then clucked his teeth in displeasure. “A weapon like this, such a man did not come by it just like that. It has been given to him for the purpose of taking your boy’s life.”

Lady Catelyn looked at the bald man thoughtfully. “Who is this man?” she asked of her daughter.

Syrio did not wait to be introduced. The Braavosi gave a graceful bow, and said, “I am Syrio Forel, first sword to the Sealord of Braavos.”

Mother’s expression changed from thoughtfulness to confusion, ‘til finally comprehension dawned. “You are the one Stannis Baratheon sent for, the water dancer.” Syrio nodded, and Sansa hid her surprise. She had been unaware of lord Baratheon’s efforts on her behalf. She almost wished she might see the man again someday, so she could thank him properly. Almost.

“Sansa, do you trust this man?” Mother’s voice was calm, but Sansa saw the downward twist to her mouth, the tightness about her shoulders.

“Syrio Forel will leave, if his presence…” The Braavosi started.

“Yes, Mother”, Sansa cut in. “I do.”

Lady Catelyn took a long, tense moment to consider her daughter, before nodding. “Very well”, she said, resigning herself to the Braavosi’s presence. “Master Forel, shut the door.”

The water dancer gave Mother a strange look, but followed her bidding in silence.

“What I am about to tell you must not leave this room”, Mother told them. “I want your oaths on that. If even part of what I suspect is true, Ned and my children have ridden into deadly danger, and a word in the wrong ears could mean their lives.”

“Syrio Forel does not know your Ned”, the Braavosi admitted, blunt as ever. “But he has promised to serve Sansa Stark, and will do so in all things. I do so swear.” Sansa’s heart warmed at his words, and she sent the bald man a dazzling smile. He clucked his teeth at her. She smiled wider.

“You have my oath”, maester Luwin vowed.

“And mine, my lady”, echoed ser Rodrik.

Lady Catelyn looked to her daughter. “And you, Sansa?”

Sansa’s smile disappeared. She swallowed thickly, before nodding her assent.

“My sister Lysa believes the Lannisters murdered her husband, lord Arryn, the Hand of the King”, lady Catelyn told them. Sansa exchanged looks with the three men. All of them stared back with a dark, foreboding expression.

“It comes to me that Jaime Lannister did not join the hunt the day Bran fell. He remained here in the castle.” The room was deadly quiet now. “I do not think Bran fell from that tower”, her lady mother admitted into the stillness.

It seemed they were all holding their breath, waiting.

Finally, it came. “I think he was thrown”, lady Catelyn said, voice barely above a whisper.

Shock and uncertainty were evident in the men’s faces. “My Lady, that is a monstrous suggestion”, said Rodrik Cassel. “Even the Kingslayer would flinch at the murder of an innocent child.”

“Would he?” Lady Catelyn asked. “I am not as sure of his honor as you seem to be, ser Rodrik.”

Sansa recalled Father had always thought very poorly of ser Jaime Lannister. Still, the mere thought that a knight of the kingsguard, even one as infamous as the Kingslayer, would send an assassin after a young boy… A Stark, no less…

“There is no limit to Lannister pride or Lannister ambition”, maester Luwin admitted reluctantly. “The boy had always been sure handed in the past, he knew every stone in Winterfell. If nothing else, that alone is cause for suspicion.”

“Gods”, ser Rodrik swore, face darkening with anger. “If this is true, he will pay for it.”

Syrio clucked his teeth. “These Lannisters are a hundred leagues away. You have suspicions, but no proof. By what means will you make them pay, ser knight?” he wondered. Ser Rodrik’s face darkened further.

“I see my daughter is wearing steel now”, lady Catelyn interrupted. Sansa’s hand reached blindly for the hilt of her thin blade. It had given her an added sense of authority, these past few days, but under Mother’s scrutiny she suddenly felt like a misbehaving child.

Ser Rodrik opened his mouth, no doubt to express his objections, but Syrio was quicker. “It was time”, he declared.

“Past time”, Mother agreed, surprising everyone, Sansa most of all. “Winterfell may have need of all its swords soon, and they had best not be made of wood.”

Maester Luwin pulled at his chain collar where it chafed against his neck. “All we have is conjecture. This is the queen's beloved brother we mean to accuse. She will not take it kindly. We must have proof, or forever keep silent.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, loving the old man for saying what she dared not utter. Her mother seemed intent to go up against house Lannister. The richest, proudest house in all of Westeros. A house bound to the iron throne by bonds of matrimony. _This is reckless._ She knew Father would say so too, if he were here. _This is folly_.

“Your proof is in the dagger”, said ser Rodrik. “A fine blade like that will not have gone unnoticed.”

“This dagger came from the south, no one here in the north knows it”, Sansa allowed herself to speak up, desperate to turn the tide against the rising madness.

Mother seemed to have had the same thought, though she did not come to the same conclusion. “Someone must go to King's Landing, then”, she said.

Sansa closed her eyes, breathing deeply. _She will not let this go_ , she realized. The decision had been made. “I'll go, then”, she told her mother firmly. _Father will listen to me, he will know what to do._

“No”, lady Catelyn replied, even firmer. “Your place is here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

Sansa looked at the men around her- at Ser Rodrik with his great white whiskers, maester Luwin in his grey robes and Syrio Forel, lean and dark. _Who to send, then? Who would be believed?_

Before she could come to a decision, Mother climbed out of bed. “I must go myself”, lady Catelyn declared, stiff fingers clenching under heavy bandages.

“My lady”, maester Luwin objected at once, “Is that wise? Surely the Lannisters would greet your arrival with suspicion.”

“What of Bran?” Sansa asked, hoping the mention of her sick brother might convince Mother to abandon this mad pursuit. “You can't mean to leave him.”

“I have done everything I can for Bran”, lady Catelyn replied calmly, laying a wounded hand on her daughter’s arm. “His life is in the hands of the gods and maester Luwin. As you reminded me yourself, Sansa, I have other children to think of now.”

 _Yes_ , Sansa thought bitterly, _but I meant the children you already have here._

“You will need a strong escort, my lady”, ser Rodrik said.

“No”, came Mother’s decisive reply. “A large party attracts unwelcome attention. I would not have the Lannisters know I am coming.”

Ser Rodrik protested. “My lady, let me accompany you at least. The kingsroad can be perilous for a woman alone.”

"I will not be taking the kingsroad," her mother said. Lady Catelyn thought for a moment, then nodded her consent. “Two riders can move as fast as one, and a good deal faster than a long column burdened by wagons and wheelhouses. I will welcome your company, ser Rodrik. We will follow the White Knife down to the sea, and hire a ship at White Harbor. Strong horses and brisk winds should bring us to King's Landing well ahead of Ned and the Lannisters.”

It seemed the matter was settled, and Sansa could tell nothing would sway her lady mother. She only made one demand, a small condition for her reluctant consent, and though lady Catelyn seemed hesitant at first, she eventually relented and allowed for a third member to join.

“Child, what is it that you mean for Syrio to do?” he asked her afterwards, when they were down in the yard and at the end of their practice. Sansa hoped it would not be their last, that someday she might see the bald man again. Hopefully with Arya by his side.

 _She will be so much better at this_. The thought pleased her. It was funny to think of a form of dancing her wild little sister might actually enjoy.

“You told my lady mother today that you will serve me in all things”, she said. The Braavosi nodded. “I will have you serve by accompanying my mother south, by keeping her safe and undetected.”

“She has the fat white knight with her”, Syrio reminded her.

“Ser Rodrik is honorable”, she shrugged.

“And Syrio Forel is not?” the Braavosi inquired, clucking his teeth. She could hear the sly smile hiding there.

“You are practical”, Sansa said. “You do not see honor where none exists.”

Syrio Forel was silent. She took it to mean he agreed.

“And in King’s Landing?” he finally asked. “How will he serve you there?”

She took a steadying breath. _This is not the end,_ she told herself. _They are all coming back; Father, Mother, Robb, Arya, Syrio. We will_ _all be_ _together again._

“There’s a young girl down there, though she might look like a boy to you”, her words made the Braavosi smile. His smile disappeared when she placed her thin, precious sword in his hands. “I think she will make a very fine water dancer”, she told him.

“Is that so?” he hummed, eyes fixed on the sword now lying across his lap. “Is that how Syrio Forel will serve lady Stark? By teaching another to be a water dancer? Hmmm?”

“You serve lady Stark by keeping her sister safe, and by teaching her how to keep herself from harm”, there was vehemence in her voice, to hide the fear. Was it truly steel, that Syrio had seen beneath her skin?

“Ah”, Syrio Forel sighed, finally understanding. “And who will keep you safe, boy?” he asked, bright eyes burning above his large nose.

“I am lady Sansa Stark, and I am in Winterfell”, Sansa reminded him, reminded both of them. “This is where I am safest. Go south, Syrio Forel, and keep a different wolf safe, for now”.

Syrio Forel tilted his head, weighing her words. “Steel and snow”, he finally said, smiling. Sansa tried to smile back.

“She should know the sword is only a loan, until she returns”, she told him instead. She prayed lord Baratheon would never find out. “And tell her this sword already has a name, and she must not change it”, she added, with a mischievous smirk. “Tell her… Tell her the sword’s name is _Needle_.” That, at least, should be enough to make her wild sister laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are BACK! 
> 
> After a rather long hiatus (WAY longer than I planned *OOPS*), this chapter will hopefully be enough to make up for the long wait. For those searching desperately for our leading man- he's coming back in the next chapter ;)
> 
> Side note- this story now officially has more subscriptions than "His True Queen", which is very, very, VERY humbling and flattering. Thank you all for taking the time to read what I write, and for thinking it's actually good enough for you to spend your precious free time on.
> 
> Hugs and kisses to y'all!


	8. A Direwolf's Pelt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark children are missing. Stannis is tired and pissed off. Promises made in haste are quickly regretted.

“My Lord! We found him!”

Ser Merek Lonmouth pulled up his horse alongside the black destrier. The knight had been riding with a search party of twelve about two miles west, closer to the river; hardly a strenuous distance for such a strong mount or a skilled rider to cover. Yet the courser’s strong neck was lathered white and its nostrils flared with each breath. Man and mount were short of breath, and their eyes held a wild look. Stannis Baratheon waited for the knight to collect himself, and tried not to let his irritation show.

Four days of seemingly endless rides had taken their toll on his limited patience. Four days of no sleep, of eating only while waiting for fresh horses to be saddled. Four days of rising tensions between Lannister men and the Stark household.

He was exhausted, but he preferred riding out in a search party to being caged inside that wretched castle. It was little more than a modest holding, in truth, a half day's ride south of the Trident. The royal party had made themselves the uninvited guests of its lord, ser Raymun Darry, while the hunt for the Stark children was conducted on both sides of the river.

They were _not_ welcome.

Ser Raymun lived under the king's peace, but his family had fought beneath Rhaegar’s dragon banners at the Trident, and two of his older brothers had died there. His uncle, ser Willem, had died by Stannis’ hand, a truth neither he nor ser Raymun were likely to forget. With king's men, Darry men, Lannisters and Starks all crammed into a castle far too small for them…

Yes, it was far better to be out here, with only his trusted men for company. Especially when the alternative was to waste away his days in the company of his brothers. Renly had arrived on the same day the Stark children had gone missing. A chattering, maddening magpie, a telltale of the oncoming storm. No, Renly was too damn handsome, and had become too much of a sensualist, to be compared to such a bird. But the mere sound of his younger brother’s voice was enough to send Stannis absolutely mad. _Robert was bad enough, but the two of them together…_

“We’ve found the Stark boy”, ser Merek managed between desperate gulps for air, pointing back towards the river. “Just beyond that small ridge, unharmed, but…”

Stannis heaved a sigh of relief, then frowned.

“But?”

“The wolf… That monster is with him and the horses are terrified, won’t go anywhere near.”

“Good”, Stannis muttered distractedly, already pulling on the reins to turn his horse about. A soft press of his heels against the muscled flanks and the destrier sprung into a swift trot, leaving ser Merek and the rest of Stannis’ company to follow behind. The men Stannis kept in his service knew better than to be insulted when ignored, or to seek further conversation when their lord wished for swift action. Even the excitable ser Merek had managed to learn these lessons, though the man never did outgrow his penchant for embellishment.

The Stark wolves hardly qualified as ‘monsters’. _Yet_.

Stannis gave the horse its head, pushing the animal into canter, and welcomed the warm evening breeze against his heated face. For a while, the only sounds to reach his ears were the wind, the ever-growing rush of the river, and the clapping of hooves against trodden paths.    

Soon, the sounds of frightened horses and shouting men broke through the calm. As he glimpsed the light of torches between low trees, a howl rented the air, deep and long and terrible. His mount stopped and hesitated, strong neck drawing up high and ears pointed ahead. _Oh, for the love of…_ Catching the loose ends of the reins, Stannis brought the makeshift whip down against the horse’s rear with a resounding crack. The horse bolted forwards. None followed behind.

The company, when he arrived, was in an uproar. Horses were bucking and men were shouting and cursing as they struggled to force their terrified mounts to comply. Several yards ahead, just beyond the reach of their torchlights, a large shadow was emitting low growls. Each new snarl sent the horses into further frenzy.

Hardly anyone noticed their lord had arrived. Only young Devan Seaworth stood calmly by his little white mare, and bowed his head respectfully under his liege’s scrutinizing gaze. He was Davos’ fifth son, the last to be born before the smuggler had entered the service of the lord of Storm’s End. The new squire to ser Richard Morrigen had been the only one clever enough to dismount.

_At least someone here has an ounce of sense._

“Silence!” Stannis roared over the ruckus. His thundering voice had no effect upon the horses, nor the snarling wolf, but his men were quick enough to comply. “I want any man incapable of controlling their mount out of my sight!”

They all stared at him, dumbfounded, for a long moment. Too long, for his limited patience.

“NOW!” the lord of Storm’s End thundered. The men scattered away like roaches, only too happy to put some distance between themselves and a snarling direwolf. Or perhaps it was the sight of their lord, so wroth, that had sent them scurrying. Only ser Richard and his squire remained.

“Well met, my lord!” ser Richard said. His calm voice and easy smile were at odds with the strong smack he delivered on the bit to keep his mount in place. Lord Lester Morrigen’s younger brother was a skilled horseman, and his grey gelding was of a steady disposition, but even so the knight had to struggle to keep his seat.

“Your squire has more sense than you, Morrigen”, Stannis said. Ser Richard glanced at the boy. His smile widened.

“Ah, yes. Do forgive me, my lord. It’s an easy thing to lose one’s head in the presence of an angry direwolf.” The knight was quick to follow his squire’s example, swinging off the saddle with an ease reserved for young men. Stannis was slower to dismount. “And, after all, my squire is the son of a sensible man. I expect him to show better sense than the silly highborn he serves.”

Stannis scowled, and searched the boy’s face for signs of wounded pride. But Devan seemed to find Morrigen’s words amusing. There was a large, satisfied smirk across his plain features.

A howl rose up, forcing Stannis to pull on the reins to keep his horse in place. He stared into the darkness, ‘til his eyes could make out where a darker shadow was standing. Shining eyes reflected flickering torchlight. White teeth gleamed in the darkness, framed by long, massive jaws.

The direwolves were growing fast.

He tried to recall the wolf’s name. _Wind, it was something to do with wind…_ Stannis was a man who barely bothered with the names of the members of his brother’s royal court. He could not be expected to keep up with the silly names the Stark children had chosen for their pets.

 _Shield_ , he suddenly recalled the name of Sansa Stark’s wolf. Odd, that he remembered such a thing. _And Ghost was the bastard’s albino… and Robb Stark chose to call his wolf…_

“Grey Wind.” The shadow quieted down. “Robb!” Stannis shouted, louder. A low, uncertain whine was his only response. “Robb, I am Stannis Baratheon. I was sent to bring you back to your father. Lord Stark is sick with worry. I will keep you safe until I can deliver you to his keeping. Upon my word as the lord of Storm’s End and Dragonstone, and as brother to the king, no harm will come to you.”

Silence. And then, a hesitant voice rose above the rush of running waters.

“And Grey Wind?”

Stannis sagged with relief at the sound of Eddard’s boy. “Yes, of course”, he said. “I will keep Grey Wind safe.”

The shadow moved hesitantly into the circle of light. Wolf and boy stood side by side, the boy’s hand sunk deep into grey fur. Both were gazing at him uncertainly. He had seen little enough of the direwolves while they traveled down the king’s road. The size of the animal took Stannis by surprise. Grey Wind was now of height with the boy’s chest, as big as any bloodhound. And the boy… The boy seemed smaller than he remembered, so young and afraid.  The lord of Storm’s End had but a brief moment to mark the tears, running through the muck that had gathered on the boy’s cheeks. And then Robb Stark threw himself into Stannis’ arms.

“I’m sorry”, the boy cried into his chest, body wrecked by heaving sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Stannis’ thoughts strayed to his brother, to a time when Renly had sought comfort in his arms. Those days were long gone. He gathered the boy closer to his chest, and tightened his grip around him. “Hush.” If his voice was too rough, Robb Stark did not notice. “I promise you, Robb, I will keep you both safe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was tired, and he had hoped to get a good night’s sleep after delivering Robb into his father’s care. But as soon as he rode past the gate and saw Eddard’s steward, Poole, waiting for him, Stannis knew his hopes were about to be dashed to pieces.

“Is it the girl?” he demanded to know.

“They’ve found her, my lord”, the steward said.

“Our men, or Lannister’s?”

“It was Jory Cassel”, Poole said, “She’s not been harmed.”

Robb, who had ridden behind him, gave a sigh of relief against his back. Stannis scowled. “Where is she?” he said, trying to keep his voice even for the boy’s sake.

“I am sorry, my lord. The guards on the gate were Lannister men, and they informed the queen when Jory brought her in. She's been taken directly before the king…”

“Damn that woman! Where is lord Stark?”

“He has gone to the king. He asked that you be informed as soon as…”

Stannis did not wait for the man to finish. _Useless_. Why did men waste breath on words when actions were needed? Stannis shot from the saddle, quick as an arrow, stopping only to help the boy dismount and to exchange a glance with ser Richard. The man nodded his understanding. There was no trace of a smile on his handsome features.

“Keep the wolf surrounded by your men”, Stannis called to the steward over his shoulder, as he hurried towards the castle. “Let no one else come near.”

He strode through the castle yard in a red rage, the boy running to keep up with his longer strides. Men called out to him, but Stannis ignored them in his haste. He would have run, but he was still the king's brother, and the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He must keep his dignity. He was aware of the eyes that followed him, of the muttered voices wondering what he would do.

Robert had appropriated Ser Raymun’s audience chamber, and that was where Stannis found them. The room was crowded when he burst in. Too crowded, he thought; left alone, Eddard and Robert might have been able to settle the matter amicably.

His brother was slumped in Darry's high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen. Cersei Lannister and her son stood beside him. The queen had her hand on Joffrey's shoulder. Thick silken bandages still covered the boy's arm.

Eddard’s girl stood in the center of the room, alone but for her father, who seemed livid. Stannis went to join them, his boots ringing on the stone floor. When Eddard saw his son, he uttered a soft cry of relief. The boy rushed to his father’s arms. The girl squeezed between the two, and all three clung to each other desperately.

“I'm sorry”, Stannis heard the girl sobbing, a strange echo of her brother. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry…” They seemed so small, hiding in their father’s arms. Nothing but a pair of scrawny children. It was hard to see how they had caused so much trouble.

Stannis turned to face the king. “What is the meaning of this?” His eyes swept the room, searching for friendly faces. But for some Stark men, they were few enough. Ser Raymun Darry guarded his look well, and old ser Barristan was grave. As for his younger brother… Renly was wearing the half smile that always made Stannis grind his teeth. The rest were Lannister men, and hostile. Their only good fortune seemed to be that both ser Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane were missing, leading searches north of the Trident.

He had spoken to Robert, but it was the queen who answered. “How dare you speak to your king in that manner!”

At that, his brother finally stirred. “Quiet, woman”, he snapped. He straightened in his seat. Ignoring his brother, the king spoke to his friend. “I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly.”

“And what business is that?” Eddard put ice in his voice. Stannis had never heard such a tone pass between his brother and his childhood friend.

The queen stepped forward. “You know full well, Stark. Your vicious children attacked my son. Them and that butcher’s boy. Their monstrous wolves tried to tear his arm off.”

“That's not true”, Arya said, loudly. “Nymeria just bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah.”

“Joff told us what happened”, the queen said. “You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him.”

“That's not how it was!” Arya cried, close to tears again. Eddard put a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes it is!” His nephew insisted. Stannis noticed that he did not so much as glance at the Stark children as he spoke. “They all attacked me, and she threw Lion's Tooth in the river!”

“Liar!” Robb yelled.

“Shut up!” the prince yelled back.

“Enough!” the king roared, rising from his seat, his voice thick with irritation. Silence fell. “Now, child”, Robert turned to Arya, “you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king.” Then he looked over at his son. “When she is done, you will have your turn. Until then, hold your tongue.”

Arya began her story. Most of it Stannis had already heard from her brother. It had been a ridiculous tale to begin with. It did not improve upon a second hearing. When she got to the part where she threw Joffrey's sword into the middle of the Trident, Renly began to laugh. Stannis ground his teeth at the sound.

For once, Robert seemed to share Stannis’ impatience for their frivolous brother. “Ser Barristan”, the king addressed the commander of his kingsguard. “Kindly escort my brother from the hall before he chokes.”

Renly stifled his laughter. “My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself.” He bowed to Joffrey. “Perchance later you'll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river.” As the door swung shut behind him, Stannis heard him say, “Lion's Tooth”, and guffaw once more.

Prince Joffrey was pale as he began his very different version of events. When his son was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. “What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, they say another.”

“I am your son”, Joffrey said, petulantly. “These northern savages tried to kill me…”

“You rotten!” Arya shrieked. Stannis stepped forward to prevent the girl from charging at his nephew. The little girl pummeled at his arm, fighting to break free. “Liar!” she screamed at Joffrey. “Liar, liar…”

“Arya, stop it!” Eddard shouted. Stannis lifted the girl into the air and pulled her back. She weighed next to nothing, but kept on kicking against his grip.

“The girl is as wild as that filthy animal of hers”, Cersei Lannister said. “Robert, I want her punished.”

The girl tried to bite him. “Seven hells”, Stannis swore. He subtly pulled on the brown rat’s nest that made up her hair, and shot the girl a warning glance. Then he turned to his brother. “Your Grace, look at her. She’s a child. What would you do, whip her through the streets? Children fight. It’s over. No lasting harm was done.”

The queen was furious. “Joff will carry those scars for the rest of his life.”

Robert looked at his eldest son. “So he will. Perhaps they will teach him a lesson. Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same with my son.”

“Gladly, Your Grace”, Eddard said with vast relief. As his anger left him, the lord of Winterfell seemed to sag. The man had led searches himself for the first three days, and had scarcely slept an hour since his children had disappeared. This morning he had been so heartsick and weary he could scarcely stand. Stannis had to force him into bed, afraid the man might fall off his horse if he attempted to ride out.

Robert started to walk away, but the queen was not done. “And what of the direwolf?” she called after him. “What of the beast that savaged your son?”

The king stopped, turned back, frowned. “I'd forgotten about the damned wolf.”

Stannis felt Arya tense in his arms. Jory Cassel, who had found her, spoke up quickly. “We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace.”

Robert did not look unhappy. “No? So be it.”

The queen raised her voice. “A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me its skin!”

“A costly pelt”, Stannis ground out. Robert grumbled. “I want no part of this, woman”, the king warned. “You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold.”

The queen regarded both brothers coolly. “I had not thought you so niggardly. The king I'd thought to wed would have laid a wolfskin across my bed before the sun went down.”

Robert's face darkened with anger. “That would be a fine trick, without a wolf.”

“And what of the other one?” Cersei wondered. Her voice was very quiet, but her green eyes shone with triumph as she stared at Stannis.

It took them all a moment to comprehend her words. “Is it here?” the king demanded of his brother. Stannis scowled, but nodded. Robert shrugged irritably. “As you will. Have Ser Ilyn see to it.”

“Robert, you cannot mean this”, Stannis protested.

The king was in no mood for further argument. “Enough, Stannis, I will hear no more. I’ve heard too much of your complaints for one night.”

Behind her husband’s back, Cersei Lannister smiled.

“Robert, please”, Eddard begged.  But even his childhood friend could not force Robert to care. “A direwolf is a savage beast”, he told Eddard darkly. “Sooner or later it would have turned on your boy the same way the other did on my son. Get him a dog, he'll be happier for it.”

That was when Robb finally seemed to comprehend. His blue eyes were frightened as they went from his father to Stannis. “He doesn't mean Grey Wind, does he?” The boy saw the truth on his face. “No”, he said. “No, not Grey Wind. Grey Wind didn't bite anybody…”

“Grey Wind didn’t do anything wrong!” Arya shouted angrily. “You leave him alone!”

“Stop them”, Robb pleaded with Stannis. “Don't let them do it, please, please, you promised… you promised... It wasn't Grey Wind, don't let them hurt Grey Wind, I'll make him be good… you promised…” The boy started to cry.

All Eddard could do was take his son in his arms and hold him while he wept. He looked across the room at Robert. His old friend, closer than any brother. At long last, Eddard Stark was beginning to see what his friend had become, yet Stannis could find no pleasure in it. His jaw was clenched so tightly, the muscles there were beginning to ache. “Please, Robert”, Eddard was begging. “For the love you bear me. For the love you bore my sister. Please.”

The king looked at them for a long moment, then turned his eyes on his wife. “Damn you, Cersei”, he said with loathing.

Stannis sighed, resigned. Gently, he disengaged himself from Arya's grasp. All the weariness of the past four days had returned to him. “I promised the boy I’d protect them both; him, and the wolf”, he told his brother. “I _swore_ to it, Robert. Would you dishonor your own brother?”

Even before he was done speaking, Stannis knew it had been the wrong thing to say. “Damn your fucking honor!” Robert boomed, spit flying out of his mouth into his thick black beard.

“Do it yourself then, Your Grace”, Stannis replied in a voice cold and sharp as steel. “At least have the courage to make a liar out of me with your own two hands.” _It would not be the first time, after all._

Robert looked at Stannis with flat, dead eyes. Then he turned to look at Eddard, and something soft and pained crossed his features. “I don’t care what happens to it, but that wolf will not be coming to King’s Landing”, the king warned his brother, in a voice that brooked no argument. Stannis nodded his understanding. It wasn’t the honorable declaration Robert owed his friend, but it was enough. Maybe. Barely.

He watched silently as the king left, his footsteps heavy as lead.

“Where is the direwolf?” Cersei Lannister asked when her husband was gone. Beside her, prince Joffrey was smiling. _Fools_.

“The wolf’s whereabouts are of no concern to you, Your Grace”, Stannis said.

“You heard your king”, the queen replied with an open sneer. “Ser Barristen, send for Ilyn Payne.”

Ser Barristan Selmy began to move, reluctantly. Stannis stopped the man with a glare.

“You will do no such thing, ser.” Even as Stannis spoke, he could hear his men, _Baratheon men_ , entering through the door. A dozen of his finest, armed and armored. Ser Richard glanced about the room, taking it all in, then nodded somberly at his liege. _Good_. The tide was turning in their favor, a fact which did not escape the queen’s notice. “My brother’s only demand was that the wolf won't come with us to the city.”

“And how do you intend to see to it, my lord, if not by killing the beast?” Old Selmy inquired, uncomfortable with disobeying a direct order from his queen. The knight was eyeing Stannis’ armored men with suspicion. “Do you mean to set the wolf free, to terrorize the smallfolk?”

“The wolf will go to Winterfell.” Eddard finally seemed to catch on. “It will be returned to the north, where it belongs. I will see to it myself.”

“No”, Stannis said. “Eddard, take your children back to their rooms and see to their care. Since it must be done, I will see it through.” He ignored Robb Stark's look of betrayal.

Cersei Lannister regarded him suspiciously. “You, Stannis? Is this some trick? Why would you do such a thing?”

They were all staring at him, but it was young Robb's look that cut. He wondered if the boy would end up resenting him for this, much like Renly resented him for… “That wolf is of the north. It deserves better than a butcher. And I promised I’d keep it safe.”

Even Cersei Lannister was not proud enough to try and make Stannis Baratheon go back on a promise.

Stannis left the room with his fists clenched, Robb’s quiet sobs echoing in his ears, and found the direwolf chained to a wall and heavily guarded by Stark men. Stannis sat beside it for a while. “Grey Wind”, he said, tasting the name once more in his mouth. He had never paid much attention to the names the Stark children had picked, but looking at the wolf now, he knew that Robb Stark had chosen well. His wolf was grey and slick, quick and ferocious. Bright golden eyes stared back at him, calm and trusting. Stannis dared to ruffle the thick grey fur, to scratch behind one ear. The wolf’s pelt was surprisingly soft.

Shortly after, ser Merek arrived. “Choose ten of our men and take the wolf north, to Winterfell. You are to deliver it directly into the care of the lady Sansa Stark.”

“All that way?” ser Merek asked.

“All that way”, Stannis affirmed, ignoring the shudder the knight failed to hide. “The Lannister woman shall never have its skin.”

He was walking back to the tower to give himself up to sleep at last when Sandor Clegane and his riders came pounding through the castle gate, back from their hunt.

There was something slung over the back of his destrier, a heavy shape wrapped in a bloody cloak. “No sign of the Stark children, Baratheon”, the Hound rasped down, “but the day was not wholly wasted. We got their little pet.” He reached back and shoved the burden off, and it fell with a thump in front of Stannis.

Bending, Stannis pulled back the cloak, dreading the words he would have to find for Eddard’s girl, but it was not another wolf after all. It was the body of a child. _The butcher's boy_ , Stannis realized, though he could not recall his name. The boy’s body was covered in dried blood. He had been cut almost in half from shoulder to waist by some terrible blow struck from above.

People enjoyed calling Stannis Baratheon a hard man, but he had never been this cruel. He had never taken pleasure in the death of innocent children. The sight beneath him made his stomach turn. “You rode him down.”

The Hound's eyes seemed to glitter through the steel of that hideous dog's-head helm. “He ran.” He looked at Stannis's face and laughed. “But not very fast.”

Stannis scowled, clenched his jaw, and said nothing. Clegane would learn soon enough that he had brought the wrong skin back to his Lannister masters, and by the time he did, the true prize would be on its way back north, guarded by Stannis’ finest.

The Lannister woman shall never have a direwolf’s pelt.


End file.
